


Beyond the Game of Thrones

by Arometic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Badass Arya, Badass Sansa, Badass Women, Gen, King Bran, King of the Six Kingdoms, Original Characters - Freeform, Political Sansa Stark, Post GoT Season 8, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 109,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22860145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arometic/pseuds/Arometic
Summary: I wrote this to explore the lives of those in Westeros and beyond after the events of Game of Thrones. While the focus will be on the Starks I didn't want to make them perfect, infallible characters like in so many other fanfics. I want them to have conflict/challenges, such as Jon and Sansa issues after what happened with Daenerys Sansa's role as queen Arya across the Sunset Sea, and with what she experienced in Westeros. Tyrion dealing with being Hand, or Jon's life at the Wall.I want them to feel loss and regret to make mistakes and sometimes to pass down what they have learned onto others This is a heavily character-driven fan-fic each chapter taking place through the eyes of a single character, which means events and their view on them will be skewed by the POV character. There will be some original characters of my own and other characters from the show/books, Tyrion, Edric Dayne, Bronn, Gendry. Those from Dorne or Essos, etc that have more conflict and secrets of their own so I hope the story is compelling. I'll just say Jon isn't the only secret the Stark would keep.This is not meant to change or fix the show or the events of season 8 it directly works from them and also references the books
Relationships: Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Hot Pie & Gendry Waters, Hot Pie & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Sansa Stark, Meera Reed & Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark & Gendry Waters, Tormund Giantsbane & Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister & Bran Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 25





	1. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow leaves for the Wall and Arya prepares to sail west. But she begins to train a new face in the ways of a water dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the summary suggests, it begins at the scene where Jon leaves his siblings at King's Landing docks, to head to the Wall.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think. :) I particularly love the ending!

She watched, as once again, Jon Snow left for the Night’s Watch. She looked to him, with tears in her eyes, while he sailed away on the skiff to the ship that would take him to the Wall. Arya’s eyes swelled, remembering Jon Snow. Jon Snow's laugh. Jon Snow's warm hugs. Jon Snow's smile. He had only just left, and she already missed him. And she might not see him again. That reality made her shudder. Arya stood between her brother and sister, and she looked up to Sansa who was fighting back her tears, but the tears were winning, and her red hair swayed gracefully in the western breeze. Arya then looked to her little brother on her other side. The whole time that she knew this version of Bran that had come south from Beyond the Wall. She could never read his face as she could with everyone else. He was always emotionless; his mind was a mystery, as were his feelings. But, as Arya gazed at her little brother in his wheelchair, she thought that she could see the smallest of emotion on Bran. A look of sadness and remorse.

“How do you plan on going west?” Sansa asked suddenly, as she wiped a tear from her cheek. It was a good question. Arya needed a ship and a crew if she ever intended on heading west. To find what mysterious lands may dwell there, to see its wonders. She fiddled with her thumbs, uncertain on the best strategy for this hurdle. She would find a way eventually, this would not be a difficult thing to accomplish. Maybe steal gold, enough to hire a crew of people crazy enough to join her. There was sure to be some gold dragons or silver stags remaining in the remnants of the Red Keep. Perhaps enough to buy a decent ship, nothing fancy though.

“I’ll get some coin, find a ship and a crew,” Arya replied.

“By get some, do you mean steal?” Sansa questioned.

“I never said that.”

“You can’t go stealing anymore,” Sansa said with an authoritative voice. “Your brother is king.”

“And your sister may become a queen,” Bran added. Arya smirked at Sansa, but her sister only looked to the water, as Jon finally reached the ship. “Sansa is right,” continued Bran. “You can’t steal, but you do need a ship. And the realm owes you a debt, me most of all. You saved my life.”

Arya gazed at him suspiciously. “Bran don’t—”

King Bran raised a hand for silence. “Remain in King’s Landing for a few weeks. I will have a ship made ready for you.”

“And I will find you a crew,” added Sansa seconds later. “You are a hero; people know your name. Know your deeds. They will follow you. Thankfully, that will make finding you a crew much easier.”

Arya looked up to her sister. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not going to let my little sister sail away without a proper crew that I have vetted.”

“And gold,” said Bran.

Arya glanced between them both, even more perplexed. She settled on Bran. “I doubt whatever is west will accept gold dragons.”

“I never said anything about the west,” Bran finished eerily, and the sound of armoured footsteps approached. Arya and Sansa turned to see Ser Podrick, Ser Brienne and between the two, Tyrion Lannister walking towards them on the dock. He held in his hand a small leather purse that jingled as he waddled.

“King Bran told us to meet you here once Jon had left,” said Tyrion once he stopped, flashing a friendly smile to Arya and Sansa. “And to give you this, my lady.” He passed Arya the leather pouch, she took it in her hands with trepidation and slowly opened it. Inside was full of golden crowns, enough to pay for a ship. She turned her head sharply to Bran, who continued to stare out into the sea, watching Jon’s ship begin to leave.

Arya looked on, disbelief in what was happening around her. “Bran, you don’t have to do this, there are more important things. Nobody has to do anything for me.”

“We would all be dead if it were not for you,”

“It wasn’t only me,” Arya said with slight annoyance coming through, but Bran did not seem to notice.

“Sansa,” he said, turning to look at her. “Will you allow Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick to escort me to back to the Red Keep?” Arya was frustrated that she had little control over this conversation and the situation, but she gave in, she could not argue with Bran and expect a reasonable response.

Her fingers clenched around the leather purse full of gold, staring at Bran. Sansa had nodded approval to Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick to escort Bran. Brienne was, after all, still sworn to Sansa’s service, and Podrick, even though he was no longer a squire, still followed Brienne. Arya watched as Podrick pushed Bran’s wheelchair along the docks, slowly off into the distance as Brienne marched besides.

Tyrion stepped forward, to take Bran’s place beside Arya, and he sighed heavily. “Difficult to see him go. Jon, I mean.”

“Everyone is leaving,” said Sansa, solemnly.

“Better than dying,” Arya added, and she turned. The three of them looked out into Blackwater Bay. Silence held the air as they watched Jon’s ship, with its black sails, rock across the water in the distance. It would stop at Braavos for provisions before heading to Eastwatch by the Sea. Arya smiled to herself, knowing that Jon, for the first time, was going to visit the city where she lived and trained for two years. It would have been nice to share it with him, she thought.

“There will be many songs written based on what has happened over these past years,” Tyrion said, breaking the silence. “And I would wager many of those will be about the Starks.” Neither Sansa nor Arya said a word. Arya never really had an interest in songs, that was always Sansa’s love when they were children. The songs and stories about heroic knights and fair maidens. Of everlasting love and honourable men. They all turned out to be lies, and they were not children anymore; Arya knew that Sansa no longer cared for songs.

She could sense Tyrion glancing at her and Sansa, and when he realized no one would respond, he continued. “Perhaps we could make one, hmm? A ballad by the heroic Stark sisters… and Tyrion Lannister the Hand of the King,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Not very catchy,” Sansa finally said. Arya couldn’t help but smirk, and apparently, neither could Tyrion.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “But I do wonder what the songs would sing. Something about wolves, obviously. Tales of honour, courage, bravery. Loss, sacrifice.” Arya could sense the unease as Tyrion spoke those final words, loss and sacrifice. Pain and misery.

“Here come the wolves,” Tyrion said, in a sing-song voice. Then he stumbled through, trying to come up with more. “Here come… here come the wolves and the dragons? Here come wolves and dragons, lions and wagons? No. Shit.”

“Here come the wolves. Nowhere to run, when the wolves come,” Arya uttered, in a quiet melody. She noticed both Tyrion and Sansa gawk at her.

“Where did that come from?” Sansa asked, her face stuck in perplexion.

“I genuinely did not expect that,” said Tyrion. “But it was a great verse. Before we add any more, it needs a title. How about; The Wolves of the Nor—”

“Please.” Sansa cut in. Arya watched as her sister rolled her eyes heavily. “Maybe I should take up praying again. So I can pray to the Gods that you two don’t become bards.”

Tyrion snorted, and Arya shook her head. “You can be a bitch, you know?” she said, smirking at her older sister.

“Someone has to be,” Sansa replied. And for the first time this day, the smallest of smiles came across Sansa’s lips.

* * *

Days had passed since she watched Jon sail away to the Wall and Arya wondered where his ship might be, what Jon might be doing, and if he was okay. She thought about him as she walked through the rubble streets of King’s Landing. The afternoon’s sunlight glistened on the side of her face as she slowly paced down the Street of Steel. She looked on as men from the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands loaded wagons with rubble and burnt bodies. Sansa had ordered that her men would assist in the clean-up of King’s Landing while she stayed here. Bran, as King, asked for the aid of the other kingdoms in rebuilding the city, and naturally, they agreed.

Arya had not spoken to Sansa since Jon had left. Her sister was too busy organizing her men and talking to her lords. Sending ravens north, south, east and west. Speaking to soldiers and commoners alike who were interested in sailing west of Westeros with the _Hero of Winterfell_ — and assisting Bran and Tyrion with the cities clean up and the aid of its citizens who had survived the slaughter. Men from all over Westeros, with all different sigils emblazoned on their armour or their coats now, roamed the city helping each other and commoners alike. The sight pleased Arya, but she knew it would not last. Sooner or later someone would betray someone else, A kingdom would declare war, a family member would die by treachery or love or both, and vengeance would cloud all other avenues. Nothing ever last. She knew it. Arya sighed and continued strolling down the street, and as she gazed around at the buildings, in the distance, she noticed a group of four soldiers standing outside a structure that had not received much damage. They were not there to help in the clean-up. They were there guarding something, or someone. As she approached them, she caught a glimpse of a stag emblazoned on their breastplates.

She stopped before them, and they all glanced at her stupidly. “You’re… Arya Stark…” said one of them to her left.

“What are you guarding?” Arya asked bluntly.

“Me,” came a voice from inside. “Let the lady in.” The soldiers clumsily parted and allowed Arya through. She walked in slowly and quickly realised the building was a blacksmith's workshop. An unlit forge at the back, empty weapon racks across the walls, and Gendry Baratheon was standing by the anvil, a small blacksmith hammer in his hands. He smiled when their eyes made contact. He wore the same fine clothing he had at the Dragonpit meeting. An elegant leather tunic, well-fitting pants. Fine undershirt. Leather boots. And his token short cut black hair, and blue eyes. He looked handsome in the clothes of a lord. Arya regretfully remembered that she had not spoken to him since the battle with the Dothraki. Or the Battle of Screaming Hill, as it was now known.

“You need better guards,” Arya said. “Guards gawk stupidly at intruders while they protect their lord.”

“They know who you are,” Gendry said as he placed the hammer on the anvil.

“I might not be who they think I am.”

“What?” Gendry’s face scrunched up.

“Never mind. What are you doing here?”

“Reminiscing, I guess.” Gendry waved a hand about the forge. “This is my old shop, Tobho Mott’s old shop. Where you’re standing right now is where your father stood when I met him.”

 _Father_. Arya had stood in many places that her father had. Knowing it hurt each time as much as the last. _How sweet it would be to see him again_. “Your shop didn’t take much damage. Can the forge still work?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah, won’t take much to get it back up. And there is a bit of steel left that wasn’t stolen.”

“Good steel?”

“Aye. Want me to make a sword? It’ll cost ya,” Gendry flashed a smile.

And Arya returned it. “I’m sure it would,” she paced around the shop, looking at the racks, the bits of steel leftover, the forge, feigning interest, until Gendry stepped in front of her, a sad look in his eyes.

“Are you really leaving to go west?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied immediately.

“Why? I was told that people who went west never returned. Elissa Farman, know about her?”

“Yes, I’ve heard the stories.”

“Then why go?”

Arya sighed. “Because I want to see what she did, I want to know what is out there, because nobody does. I want to explore; I want adventure. I won’t get that staying in Westeros.”

“After everything, you have been through, why risk it?”

“Everything I have been through is why I risk it.”

“You have family here, people that love you.”

Arya smiled faintly at Gendry and took his hand in hers. “I know and that will not change. But they don’t need me.” Her family was the safest they could be. Bran was king and surrounded by people loyal to him, not to mention his abilities that would make it difficult for anyone to betray him. Jon was heading for the Wall, where the Freefolk were now allies and the White Walkers no longer roamed. And Sansa, she would be queen, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She would let the Northmen choose, and they would choose her. Arya knew it, so did Jon. Even Cersei did. An entire kingdom would protect Sansa, plus all the allies she has made over the years. Brienne and Podrick, Lord Robin and Royce in the Vale. Family in Edmure Tully in Riverrun. Gendry in the Stormlands, Tyrion Lannister. And her brother as King of the southern kingdoms.

She felt Gendry’s fingers tighten around hers. He held her gaze with his blue eyes for a long time and even though Arya believed that her family would be safe. She understood that Gendry was talking more about himself than anyone else. But she did not want another conversation, that would retread what they had already talked about in the past. He had to move on; they both did.

Gendry took a breath and made to speak, but before a word came out from his mouth, a chaotic noise from outside caught the attention of the pair. They listened as men shouted to each other and they watched as a white figure sped past the blacksmith's shop. Half a heartbeat later, Arya recognized that the white figure had been a white horse and she immediately bolted from the shop out onto the street with Gendry following. She saw Northern stable boys run past her trying to chase down the white mare that had stopped at the end of the street, stamping its hooved foot into the red dirt.

“STOP!” she shouted viciously. And all the stable boys slid to a halt. “You won’t catch a bloody horse. What is happening?” she demanded.

“My lady!” came a deep voice from behind her. Arya and Gendry turned to see Georg, Winterfell’s new Master of Horse. He had joined the army travelling south. He was well into his fifties, with a deep voice that reminded Arya of Bronze Yon Royce. But unlike Royce, Georg smiled often and had a kind face.

“What have your stable boys done to her?” Arya asked as Georg stumbled towards her, panting heavily.

“Nothin’ m’lady. I swear it. We were just feeding and brushing her as we always do, then suddenly she turned and bolted. Knocked young Gerric on his arse.” Georg said. Gendry laughed, but Arya turned her sights towards her white mare in the distance. “Not to worry, m’lady we will get her back and calm her down,” Georg finished.

“No, you won’t,” she said. “I’ll go to her.”

Georg shrugged. “As you wish, m’lady.” Arya walked on alone, feeling the eyes of Gendry, Georg, the soldiers and the stable boys following her as she strolled gently towards her white horse. The horse had hardly broken a sweat and was breathing calmly, watching Arya approach. But as Arya came closer, the mare turned her head and began trotting down another street. Arya felt uneasy, unnatural. All the same, she followed.

The white mare led her into another street, filled with rubble and half burnt buildings. Three men were loading a wagon just near Arya, and in the centre of the street, a young child played. It was a girl playing about with a large stick, swinging it wildly around her. Arya slowly approached her horse, who did not move; it remained fixated on the child. Then she suddenly shook her head and whinnied. The mare cantered back and moved its head about uneasily. Arya placed her hand on the mare’s long face and gently cooed her to calmness. The horse seemed to be unaware of where it was, and Arya furrowed her brow, as many thoughts of what just happened crossed her mind. She continued to pat the horse, whispering in her ear, slowly calming her. Eventually, the mare’s breathing slowed and succumbed to Arya’s soothing touch as Arya continued to pat her horse. She gazed into the distance at the child. The girl was in drab, cheap clothing. Arya thought that she was probably an orphan, perhaps her parents had died in the dragonfire. But there was something about the girl, the way she swung the stick so viciously screaming as she did it. The girl seemed to be practicing sword fighting and didn’t appear to be very good at it.

“Stay here,” Arya whispered in the ear of her white mare, and the horse obeyed while she walked down the street. As she came closer and closer to the girl, she had not noticed Arya’s approach until the girl had swung the long stick so far around that it would have hit Arya, had she not had grabbed it before it touched her face. The girl gave a short scream and leapt back, letting go of the stick.

“Who are you,” the girl asked, her accent was not of King’s Landing, and it held a hint of defiance and demand. Arya studied her, she was maybe the same age Arya had been when she left Winterfell all those years ago, and her entire life changed. The girl had dark brown hair that fell just past her shoulders. Large brown eyes, a narrow face. A slender, but short body and smooth olive skin. She looked like a Dornishmen.

“Who are you?” Arya asked kindly.

“I asked first,” replied the girl, she still stood defiantly, her fists clenched.

Arya smirked. “You going to fight me? You gave me your only weapon.”

“It’s a stick.”

“Which can still be used to defend yourself,” Arya held the stick in its centre and spun it around her like a staff. As she made the moves, she had practised one hundred times and more. She saw the agape mouth of the girl as she watched. Arya stopped and studied the stick. “You were wielding this like a longsword. It’s too long for that, and you are too small to use a longsword.” Arya snapped the stick in two and made pieces that were the same length as Needle.

“Hey!” the girl screamed, but Arya threw one of the broken sticks to her. The wood hit her face, and she fumbled. When the stick had landed sadly on the ground, the girl shot a dirty look at Arya who only smiled in response.

“Pick it up. Come on, fight me,” Arya urged the girl. She took the Braavosi stance and the girl moved quickly to pick up the stick. She held it with two hands, mimicking a Westerosi knight, but clearly untrained. She swung the stick wildly at Arya’s head, and Arya simply moved to the side, pushing the girl's stick away with her own.

The dark-haired girl gritted her teeth and growled. She leapt towards Arya, wailing fiercely. She swung and swung and swung. And at each swing, Arya had only to move slightly to dodge them. On the girls final, wild swing. Arya met her stick with such force, it knocked it out of the girl’s clumsy grip. And Arya stepped forward, put her leg behind the girl and pushed her down with her arm. The dark-haired girl fell hard into the dirt, and Arya pointed her stick at her and laid a foot into her chest. Then the dark-haired girl, lying beneath Arya’s sole, wailed shrilly and punched feebly at Arya’s foot. Arya looked at the girl, who growled while she punched and pushed and she jabbed the stick into the girl’s chest and caught her attention. The girl stopped her attack but still held a ferocious look of defiance.

“I watched you,” Arya began. “You were swinging the stick like you wanted to kill someone. But you won’t kill or protect anyone with how you fight.”

“I’ll learn,” growled the girl.

“Who would teach you? You’re a peasant in rags.”

“I am not!”

“Then who are you!” Arya commanded, her sudden booming voice caught the girl off guard her defiant looked parted, and unease took its place.

“I’m… I’m Estyr,” admitted the dark-haired girl called Estyr.

“Estyr who?”

“Just Estyr,” the girl replied, and Arya could see the shapes of lies in the girl’s face, but this was enough for now. She lowered the stick and lifted her foot off Estyr, and she immediately shot up off the ground.

“Where are your parents?” Arya asked.

“Why do you even care?” Estyr shot back. The defiance had returned to her.

Arya threw the stick on the ground, placed her hands behind her back. “Because I am Arya Stark. And maybe I can help you.”

Her name had jolted Estyr to attention. “Stark,” she said quietly. “Your brother is king.”

“Yes.”

“You’re Arya Stark?” Estyr asked, still with disbelief. “You’re the Hero of Winterfell?”

“Some say.”

Estyr grinned wide, and the questions began to shoot out of her like a thousand arrows. “Is it true you slew the ice demon? The Night King? Is it true you fought off one hundred dead men on your own? Are the stories about King Bran and Sansa Stark and Jon Snow true too?”

Arya furrowed her brow. “How do you know of all this? Of what happened in the North?”

“I heard the stories that other kids talked about. And some older folk who saw what happened in the city. Are they true? Queen Cersei said the dead men were tales made up by the Dragon Queen, but Allyri…” Estyr suddenly stopped and uneasily darted her eyes about. “My mother, I mean. She said they had to be true, especially if it involved the Starks.”

“Your mother is much smarter than Queen Cersei was.” Arya said with a smile “Where is she?” But the sullen and long eyed look that came across Estyr’s face was answer enough for Arya. She knew that look and had expressed it herself many times. “Was she killed by dragonfire?”

Estyr slowly shook her head. “Not by dragonfire. I… I watched Unsullied kill her. They speared her as she ran away.” Arya saw a tear roll down Estyr’s cheek, and she brushed it away harshly. “She was innocent! She was unarmed! Why would they do that!” More tears streamed from Estyr’s brown eyes and more harsh wipes with her hand.

Arya stepped closer to the girl and put a hand on her shoulder as Jon Snow had done many times with Arya. “Is that why you were training with the stick? Want to kill the Unsullied that killed your mother?”

“I’ll kill them all!”

“The Unsullied have sailed to Naath. Are you going to sail there too, kill all four thousand with a stick?”

“I will…” Estyr said half-heartedly between sobs.

“Revenge is not what you imagine, Estyr. If you follow that road for too long, you can get lost, and you might not ever return. You are too young for that.”

“I don’t care… if I knew how to fight, I could have protected my… my mother. But I didn’t, and I watched her die, and I couldn’t do anything! I won’t let that happen again, and I'm going to kill the man who killed my mother. I’m going to train. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Arya did not like where this was going. “You’re going to train yourself?”

Estyr nodded quickly and wiped one last tear from her cheek.

“No, you’re not,” Arya rose and eyed Estyr down. “Want to meet the king?”

“What?” Estyr asked with complete surprise.

* * *

The Throne Room of the Red keep already showed the rejuvenation of King’s Landing. The snow and ash that once littered the floor had wholly gone. The braziers fixed and cleaned. The pillars lining the centre of the hall had men brushing them down and begun repair work. Those that were all but destroyed, had framing erected to begin their reconstruction. Even work on relaying stone had started at the gaping hole in the wall that provided a view of Blackwater Bay. The only item that was not touched was the Iron Throne. It lay in a sad molten slump of iron, drooping down the stairs of the Throne Room’s dais.

“It will stay there, as a reminder,” Bran said, sitting in his chair beside Arya as she stared at the slump.

“That, and probably because it’s too bloody hard to move,” she replied.

“That too,” Tyrion said on her other side. “What brings you here, my lady? And with such company.” Tyrion was, of course, talking about Estyr who stood a good distance away out of earshot.

“I would like somewhere private to train,” Arya answered.

“Private? King’s Landing is a big city. And has recently begun renovation,” said Tyrion.

“In the Red Keep, away from prying eyes and distractions.”

“I suppose you would like practice swords as well?”

“If it’s possible.”

“We’ll find something. This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the common child standing behind us, would it?”

“Might do.”

Tyrion gazed into her eyes. “Why would Arya Stark have any interest training peasant children when she is about to go west? You do know we have set up camps for orphans and those who lost their homes? Sansa helped with them; in fact, she is at one this very minute. Take the girl there.”

Arya looked mournfully at the melted throne and dais. Then turned around to fix her gaze on Estyr. Tyrion followed her gaze, and as Arya watched the Dornish peasant girl glancing about the Throne Room, she felt her heart get heavy. “The girl is set on an idea. If I leave her with it, she won’t live for long.”

“Many children have had their whole lives changed recently,” said Tyrion with remorse. “Men and women too. What makes you believe she will die quicker than others. What makes you want to change that? Why is she so important?”

“I know the look she has in her eyes. And I know where it can lead.”

“And what look is that?”

“Vengeance,” Arya took a long breath and called out down the hall. “You! Come here!”

Estyr began a nervous walk towards them, and as she did Ser Podrick came and turned Bran’s chair around, and the four of them moved slowly to meet the girl. Sansa had told Podrick to stay by Bran’s side, while Brienne stayed with her. He moved Bran where he was needed and protected him at all times. Podrick was in every sense of the word, a Kingsguard. Only without the title, and the golden armour.

“Hello,” Tyrion said joyfully, as Estyr finally reached them. The girl glanced at each of them uncertain. “It seems you have been lucky enough to gain favour with Lady Arya. I am Tyrion Lannister, and this is our King. Bran the Broken.” Once again, Estyr glanced about unsure of what to say or do, then as if suddenly remembering, she dropped to one knee before Bran. She knelt for a long moment before Bran motioned her to stand.

Estyr was staring at Bran, looking at him as if she was trying to figure out some problem. “How does a cripple become King?” she asked Bran. Tyrion made an awkward cough and Arya looked down at her brother. Of all the things she expected to see, this was not one of them. Bran was smiling at Estyr.

“A long road. And much knowledge.” Bran replied

Estyr gave a cheeky grin. “It must have been a long road being a cripple.”

“OI!” Arya shouted and whacked Estyr hard across her head, who then retreated rubbing at the new wound. But Bran still smiled, and he looked up to Arya.

“The Small Council Chambers has a map room that Cersei built. That should be sufficient space to train,” he said. Arya knew the place. She had been there with Sandor Clegane when she helped him sneak into the Red Keep during the Dragon Queen’s destruction of the city. And it was there where she said goodbye to him. To his scarred face and sad eyes. To a good man.

“Agreed,” Tyrion said. “There aren’t many free spaces in the Red Keep at the moment. You can train there anytime we don’t have council. Which… won’t be anytime soon because we have no Small Council at this point in time.”

Arya looked to Estyr swept in rags and dirt, smelling of sweat and pig shit. “Good. We’ll go there now.”

* * *

Though the rubble had cleared from the Small Council Chambers, the large map of Westeros on the floor still had cracks running through it. They would offer a challenge to Estyr, thought Arya. A good challenge. Estyr would need to practice her footing and balance and at the same time, make sure not to trip on a crack and falter. If she did, Arya would punish her in training. She spun the two wooden practice swords around in her hands that Tyrion had found for them. One, covered in soot and ash, the other had chips in its handle and on the blade. But they were good enough.

Arya continued to twirl the swords around as she circled Estyr, who stood in the centre of the room. She was reading the map, mouthing the words of castles and kingdoms. “How does a peasant know how to read?” Arya asked curiously.

Estyr shot her eyes up with surprise at the question. “My mother taught me.”

“Your Mother?” asked Arya with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Was she a Lady?”

“No… she worked at an inn, in the city.”

 _A lie_. Arya thought. “Can’t say I’ve ever met a literate innkeep.”

Estyr stayed quiet, and when it was evident that she would not say anymore, Arya threw one of the wooden swords toward her. Estyr caught it by the blade then held it with two hands at the hilt.

“Next time, you’ll catch it by the hilt,” Arya said.

“Next time, you could throw it better,” Estyr flashed a cheeky grin and Arya launched herself forward as quick as she could. Estyr did not even see Arya’s sword wack one of her knuckles, but she felt it. The Dornish girl screamed with agony and took her hand from the blade, Arya stepped back, taking the Water Dancer stance.

“That hurt!” Estyr cried.

“You want me to train you?” Arya demanded.

“Yes…”

“Then it’s going to hurt. If that is too much, then leave. You’re wasting my time.”

Estyr stood in place and raised her chin. “I want to learn.”

“Then stand right. You are not holding a battle axe or a longsword. It is a needle. A fine, delicate weapon. Stand side-face.” Arya watched as Estyr mimicked Arya’s stance clumsily. Arya took it upon herself to adjust the girls’ body, using her sword to straighten her back, showing her where to bend her knees and where her free hand should go. “You are too small to fight like a brute. But you are just the right size for speed and lethality. This is not the dance of the Westerosi knight. No hacking and hammering. This is swift and deadly; the sword you wield must be a part of your arm. Not two, but one. One arm. One motion. One hand is all that is needed.”

Arya allowed Estyr to watch her sway her blade smoothly across the air as if it was a wave of water. “But you can use both hands. I saw you before twirling the swords. You must know.” Estyr objected.

“That is not the dance you learn today. You will learn the Braavos dance. The water dance.” Again, Arya moved her blade around in mesmerising motion, glancing at Estyr who looked on intently. “Now, take your stance and try to hit me.”

And so, the training began. Estyr stood side-face and struck toward Arya, the wooden swords sang but not one hit landed on Arya. She spun around Estyr, tripped her up. Parried her attacks without ever looking and whacked her again and again. Even with each failure, Estyr would not stop. She rose from her fall and held her chin high, and Arya would call, “again!” and Estyr would once again make a strike, and she continued to stumble and fall, out skilled by Arya. And when she stumbled in a crack on the floor, Arya made sure to hit her hard with the flat of her wooden blade. Estyr cried with pain but rose back to continue fighting. The training progressed through the days, they practised twice a day, until they were both breathless. Arya showed Estyr the proper way to grip a sword, she told her of the heart and that being the quickest way to kill a person. And Estyr was eager to learn. She had begun to chase cats, and stand on one leg to practice her balance, just as Syrio Forel had told Arya to do. In the time between training, they would sit together and talk. Estyr spoke of her mother, how she died, and how she lived. Arya finally found out Estyr’s age; she was twelve. And she told Arya that she grew up in Dorne before moving to King’s Landing so her mother could work.

Estyr would talk of her childhood in Dorne, and how she would lay in the sands, looking up to the sky for shooting stars, she said that if they saw a star falling, she would make a wish. “A shooting star is the most beautiful thing. Next to a sunrise,” Estyr said one day. And she spoke of stories of the Martell’s, particularly of Oberyn Martell, the Viper, whom she seemed to admire. And to Arya’s great surprise, Estyr spoke of an old warrior queen. Nymeria of the Rhoyne. She would talk about the old stories of Nymeria, tales Arya knew too well.

“I used to read about the old Targaryen queens, Rhaenys and Visenya and Nymeria too. I always liked her stories more,” Arya said one day. “I had a direwolf that I named Nymeria, you know?”

With this unveiling, Estyr’s eyes lit up, and she begged to hear more. Arya told her of her direwolf, and of the ones her brothers and sister had. And that somewhere out in the wild, Nymeria still roamed, and Ghost waited for Jon. Overtime, Estyr began to ask Arya about her family and her home of Winterfell. And Arya told her, not everything, but what most others knew about her family and she added enough that Estyr would know Sansa and Jon by reputation. Estyr continued to ask about the Long Night and the dragons. About the swords Arya had and the training she underwent. About the people she met and the people she killed. She asked about battles, and if they were like in the books.

They sat together in the corner of the map room, Estyr bit off a piece of jerky and passed it to Arya. “You’ve been in a few battles?”

“Yes,” said Arya, as she bit into the jerky and took a drink of her ale.

“What are they like? What is it like to fight in them? Are they like the stories?”

“You ask a lot of questions, girl.”

“You’re my teacher. I want to learn.”

Arya took another drink from her ale, then sighed. “It’s chaotic. It’s not something I’d ever wish you to experience. I don’t know if it’s like this for other people, but my brother Jon told me he experienced the same things I do.”

“What things?” Estyr asked, her voice full of curiosity.

“There is a feeling, not an emotion, but a buzz, I suppose, or adrenaline. But it’s not really that either. It’s a fury, a battle fury. And when I fight, that is all there is. There is nothing but that on either end, and it seems to last for only a moment before it's gone and you see all the dead that you’ve killed surround you.”

“Is it hard to kill?” Estyr asked after a brief silence.

“Not for me,” Arya replied. She turned to face the Dornish girl, her arms bruised, her knuckles scarred with wounds. “Why do you think I train you, Estyr?”

“So I can fight, so I can kill.”

Arya slowly shook her head. “No. I train you so you can live. This world is a harsh place even in times of peace, and your eyes are filled with vengeance, as mine once were. But the only reason I am alive today is because of other people. Else I would have died a long time ago.” Estyr furrowed her brow, Arya continued speaking. “You might not have that; I train you, so you can protect yourself and others, and live. Do you understand?”

“I… think so…”

“You have to promise me that you won't go and satisfy your vengeance. Don’t go and look for the Unsullied.”

“They killed my mother,” said Estyr with sad eyes.

“And they will kill you too. Do you believe your mother would want that for you, to give up your life so carelessly?” Arya watched as Estyr looked sadly to the ground and she put a hand on the Dornish girl's shoulder. "Promise me, Estyr."

Estyr's wet eyes met her. "I promise."

"Good," said Arya with a smile.“Now, my turn to ask questions.”

Estyr expression went dubious. “What questions?”

“You are hiding something from me. I can tell, do not try and deny it.”

Estyr’s face became a nervous patter as her mind raced with a response. She finally took a deep breath. “I made a promise to someone that I wouldn’t ever tell anyone about my secret. Not until the right moment.”

Arya removed her hand. “Does this secret threaten my brother, the King. Or Sansa, or Jon?”

“I… I don’t think so, not unless they get involved. But they have no reason too, and I don’t want them too.”

“You understand I can’t fully trust you because of this. That I don’t truly know you.”

“I made a promise I can’t break that. I’m sorry!” Estyr pleaded. “It won’t affect us, please don’t stop training me!”

Arya looked into Estyr’s large dark eyes. She was curious about what she was hiding, but Estyr was as honest as she ever has been in this conversation. Arya knew that the girl truly believed her secret would not affect them, and in reality, it could be nothing major. Estyr wanted to keep a promise she made, and that was no bad thing. Arya smiled at the girl, “Come on; let's finish training.”

Estyr faced beamed with joy at the words and Arya rose quickly off the ground, and suddenly the world spun, and she placed her hand on the wall. “Oh, fuck.”

Estyr snorted and began laughing. “What!?”

“Might have drunk too much,” replied Arya and she shook her head roughly. “I’m alright, come on.”

Estyr picked up her sword, rose and gave Arya a devilish smile. “Back in Dorne, I knew this old wet-nurse who said that curses were for dim-witted fools.”

“That wet-nurse was a dim-witted fool,” Arya replied. “But if you curse to look tough, then you are more of a fool.”

“What about when you just cursed?”

“Sometimes, it feels good to let it out.”

“Like when you’ve had too much ale?” Estyr giggled and flashed a thin smirk.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” said Arya, positioning her sword before her.

Estyr continued to smirk. “That’s what my mother said.” At those words, Arya attacked. Despite the ale, Estyr could still not hit her.

As more days went by and more training progressed, Arya showed Estyr drills that she could practice in her own time. “Train every day with these drills. Every. Single. Day.” Arya would tell her. “That is how I got better. Once I have left, practice these drills until you find someone that you can train with.” Arya would also show her brief glimpses and drills of staff training and using a weapon in each hand, telling Estyr of her time practicing these techniques under the tutelage of the Faceless Men.

Though they were rarely bothered during training due to there being no Small Council, Tyrion would often pass by to look on and offer something witty to say, before leaving to fulfil tasks as the Hand. When they were not together, Arya would spend her time walking through King’s Landing, waiting for her a crew she had not met, and a ship she had not seen. Eventually, Bran told her that they had found a ship and it was being repaired and refitted for use and that soon she could go and see it. Yet she had still not spoken to Sansa. She did not ever seem to visit the Red Keep, Arya figured Sansa had spent enough time here when she was younger. She visited Gendry and asked him for a particular favour, which he accepted with a hundred question that Arya did not answer. She spoke to Samwell Tarly and learned that Gilly was making her way south and that Sam was chosen by Bran, to be Grand Maester once he finished his Maester training at the Citadel. On another day, as she walked up King’s Landing’s main street, heading toward the Red Keep. Arya was come upon by a group of small Northern soldiers, carrying crude swords and three-pronged spears, outfitted in boiled leather, and coats of green. The sigil of House Reed graced a pin that held their cloaks together. Meera and Howland Reed stepped out from the centre of the soldiers. Both were smiling sadly.

“My Lord. Meera,” Arya addressed them. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve come to bid farewell,” said Howland.

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“Don’t be,” Meera said. “We hate this shit city. Lady Sansa has allowed us and our men to leave back home to Greywater Watch. Not out of the kindness of her heart, though.”

“The Neck is the first defence of the North, and it’s an entryway. She doesn’t want to leave it undefended for so long, even in peacetime. Can’t say I disagree with her.” Howland said.

“I’m not surprised. Do you march for the Neck?” Arya asked.

“I do, but not father,” Meera said.

“Yes, Meera will lead our men back home to the Neck. Lord Wyman Manderley will be returning to White Harbor with his men via his ships. I will join them and then sail to the Wall.”

Arya shot Howland a confused look. “Why the Wall?”

“Never seen it. Thought I’d better.”

She nodded, “If you see Jon, say hello for me?”

“Of course, my lady,” Howland said kindly. The Reeds, along with the Manderlys left that afternoon, and the city became a little quieter. The proceeding days seemed to drag on slowly, the sun rose and blistered the land, winter felt done and gone as King’s Landing was ever so prudently cleaned, and repairs began at no great haste. Arya trained in a thin tunic and pants alongside Estyr in the same outfit, who was ever so slowly getting better. The girl was a good student, if not a smart-arse. Estyr no longer caught herself on cracks, and she was able to defend herself from a few of Arya’s strikes. She even said that she almost caught a cat.

“I almost had it!” she pleaded.

“But you didn’t catch it,” replied Arya with a teasing tone. “Do you want to be as quiet as a shadow and as quick as a snake?”

“Yes! As quick as the Viper.”

“Quicker. Oberyn Martell is dead,” Arya moved to attack, but out the corner of her eye, she saw Gendry and Sansa walk into the chambers together. Her momentary paused was caught by Estyr who made her attack and whacked Arya hard on her arm. Estyr smiled wide when she heard Arya’s grunt, but she was no longer smiling when Arya disarmed her sword and knocked her to the ground.

“Dead girl,” Arya said, with her wooden sword pushed against Estyr’s chest.

“I got you first,” Estyr responded with defiance.

“She did, I saw it,” came Sansa’s voice as her and Gendry slowly approached.

Arya withdrew her sword. “Get up,” Estyr rose, but she had her eyes fixated on Sansa and Gendry who she only just noticed. “Practice your drills,” Arya told her, and she walked off with Sansa and Gendry to the council chambers long table beside the windows. Arya approached the chair that she had placed her doublet around and stood by it. Gendry approached, holding in his hands a small object wrapped in a sheet. He placed it on the table and unfurled it, and removed it from its holder. Its steel glimmered in the sunlight, and as Arya ran her fingers across its edges and point, she could feel how sharp it was. _You could poke someone full of holes if you're quick enough._

“I can be quick,” Arya mumbled beneath her breath.

“What?” Gendry asked with a strange look.

“Nothing,” she reached inside her doublet beside her, pulling out the small leather pouch full of gold dragons. But as she reached inside the pouch, she felt Gendry's hand on hers.

She looked at him, and he shook his head. “Friends don’t pay.”

“This is fine work, Gendry,” Arya said as she shook his hand off.

“Consider it a parting gift.”

“It’s not for me.”

“I know. But it’s the least I could do before I go.”

“Go?”

“I leave for Storm’s End, today. My men are already waiting outside the city for me.”

Arya’s heart suddenly dropped. “You never told me.”

“I’ve been busy, and so have you. Besides, I knew I would see you one last time,” Gendry’s eyes went sad. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I know,” Arya replied with a smile. She expected Gendry to take offence maybe or say something smart in response, but he only laughed. Arya grabbed his face and kissed his lips. Then they embraced. His burly arms held her tight, and she could feel tears in her eyes.

Suddenly, Gendry parted from the hug, wiping his own eyes. “You be careful, ok?” he said. Then he turned to Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I--”

“I’m sure I will see you again, Gendry,” Sansa said, smiling. “Feel free to send a raven to Winterfell if you ever need assistance.”

“Thank you, my lady,” He bowed to her, then with one last, sad look, he glanced at Arya and smiled. Gendry Baratheon slowly left the Small Council Chambers, and Arya’s life.

Sansa approached Arya. "Samwell leaves today too. For the Citadel.”

“Everyone is leaving.”

“Yes. He waits for us outside.”

“Outside?”

“He and I have things to show you.” Sansa led the way through the shattered halls of the Red Keep, and Arya followed, taking with her the wrapped steel and the pouch of gold and ordered Estyr to continue practicing her drills. The sisters walked on, past repair work that had begun and debris that still littered the keep and much of King’s Landing itself. They walked outside then toward the broad stairs to the Red Keep’s entrance, and together they stood where Daenerys once stood, where she had given her speech of world domination toward the plaza lined from edge to edge with Dothraki and Unsullied. The same plaza where Arya fought the Unsullied, and almost died. Samwell Tarly stood at the base of the stairs, holding his hands a plethora of books and rolls of paper. Next to him, was a motley crew of people, fifteen in total. Young and old, man and woman. Commoner, soldier and one man who dressed in fine silk. At the sight of Sansa and Arya’s presence, Samwell ascended the stairs, with those people following him. Eventually, he arrived and one by one, so did the others, they all stood in front of Sansa and Arya, beaming.

“Hello,” Sam said with his usual friendly smile.

“Hello, Sam,” replied Arya. “Sansa tells me you leave for the Citadel?”

“I am. A trader ship from Old Town will take me there soon. But I’ve brought some things for you,” Samwell laid out before Arya, two books and several large scrolls on the ground, as well as a bag that held a compass, an old monocular and plentiful inkwells, blank parchments and quills. Sam rose, smiling. “What is in the bag is largely self-explanatory, you can navigate where you’re going and write down what you find if you like.”

“I’m not much of a writer,” Arya replied with a thin smile.

“Doesn’t have to be special,” Sam said with a laugh. “I’d still read it. I’d love to know what is west… but anyway… The books talk about what we know of what is west, which is almost nothing. The scrolls are maps of Westeros and what we believe lies west… which is mostly water.”

“Thank you, Sam,” she replied in earnest as she stared at the objects on the ground.

“It’s my pleasure. I really should get going though. The ship might leave without me.”

“Farewell, Sam,” Sansa said. “And thank you for all you have done.”

Sam made his normal reaction when someone complimented or thanked him, he played with his hands, glanced at the ground or some invisible person beside him, all the while smiling with red cheeks. “Oh, well... It’s nothing. That’s what friends are for, right?” he finally said. And then they watched as slowly he descended the long staircase to begin his journey back to Old Town and the Citadel.

The fifteen people still stood before Sansa and Arya, waiting patiently for their moment. Layered in rags or leather, some soldiers wore steel armour, and there was one red-bearded soldier Arya recognised. “Arya, this is your crew,” Sansa announced, waving a hand by each one. And from one end to the other, they began to introduce themselves and tell their story and why they would join Arya. Six Northmen, Gidden, Haren, Holt, Symon, Wyll and Mikel. Gidden and Symon were fishermen in White Harbor before they got levied into the Northern army, though Symon had experience working on larger vessels. Haren, Holt and Wyll were soldiers that had gone with Jon when he sailed to Dragonstone to meet Daenerys Targaryen. They knew their way around a ship.

Then there were three Valemen, Rowen, Donnel and Ossy. Rowen had served on trader ships that went between Gulltown, Braavos and Pentos. Donnel and Ossy served together at Snakewood, travelling across the Narrow Sea. The Northmen and Valemen had lost either their homes, or family, and some, like Mikel and Wyll, had lost both. They were still young and keen to move on, they knew their way around a ship and the sea, and they were all tough and burly men. But most importantly, Sansa made it clear that they all knew Arya, either through directly witnessing her actions, or hearing of the things she had done. They were loyal to the to Sansa and the Stark name and loyal to Arya, and they highly respected her.

Three other men were next, they were neither Northerners nor Valemen, but residents of King’s Landing. Pratt was a soldier who served in the Royal Fleet when it existed, though he had no loyalty to Cersei, as his wife had died in the explosion that destroyed the Great Sept and much of the surrounding buildings. When he heard of Sansa asking for men to join Arya, he jumped at it — saying that he missed the sea. Elyas and Barton were former shipbuilders, two common men who knew the ins and outs of many different types of ships. Neither of them had a family, and after seeing the destruction that Drogon and Daenerys had brought, they were keen to leave this place and wipe the horror from their memory with western waves. The three men were older than the rest, though they still had light in their eyes and were eager to travel.

Beside them and looking out of place, stood two women; one, who looked like she was in her forties and another younger girl, seemingly of Arya’s age. The older woman's name was Alora.

“Have you served on a ship, Alora?” Arya asked her.

“Nope,” the woman replied with a smile, that showed her mouth only housed a few teeth.

Arya raised both her eyebrows. “Then what can you offer me and my crew?”

“I can fish,”

“So can half these men.”

Alora cackled “Aye, but can they cook what they catch? These dimwits would probably burn it or eat it raw and get themselves sick.”

“So you can cook?” Arya asked patiently.

“I’m probably one of the best cooks in this stinking city.”

“That’s a bold claim. Can anyone here back it up?” Arya put the question to the entire group, but none spoke up.

“I only cooked for my family,” Alora said defensively.

“An’ where are they,” Holt suddenly asked.

“Dead,” said Alora bluntly. That seemed to be the theme of this crew, Arya thought. Though even if Alora was not the greatest cook, Arya knew to have someone that could make even a halfway decent meal would be beneficial.

“Why do you want to join?” Arya asked her.

“Me husband. He was a shipbuilder in Lannisport, and he used to sail on them sometimes. Whenever he did, he would go on abouts how great it was. ‘What a family a ship’s crew is. The great feeling of the rock of the waves and the cool wind in your hair' The stupid bastard was bald though.” All of them laughed at Alora's comment, even Sansa and Arya. Then Alora continued. “But then he died, started coughing up blood, month or so later, he was gone... Then the War of the Five Kings started, and I fled with my two sons to King's Landing looking for work. Now I'm here in this shit city, with my two sons dead and my home destroyed I got nothing. When I heard the Lady Sansa was seeking people for a crew. It made me think of me husband and what he would say about the cool air and family. I thought maybe I could see the vast ocean and maybe not die alone.”

Arya nodded solemnly in understanding. “Did your son’s die when King’s Landing was sacked and burned?” Arya asked her after a moment. She was dreading the answer but what came was worse than she could have imagined.

“Neither,” Alora stated. “They was levied into the Lannister Army just after we got to King's Landing. They died to Robb Stark at the Battle of the Whispering Woods.”

Arya’s eyes went wide. But it was Sansa whose shock came first. “You failed to mention that when I brought you in,” Sansa snapped, her voice was full of ice.

“Well, I‘m mentioning it now,” Alora replied coolly. “You think I’m gonna kill ya sister?”

“How do I know you won’t kill me?” Arya asked. “You want to serve under a woman whose family killed yours? How do I know you won’t poison my food? Try and slit my throat?”

“Well, if the stories about you are true, then I’d be stupid to even try either of those. ‘Sides, killing you won’t bring me sons back. And ya not to blame for the wars they fought and died in. If my sons were here, they wouldn’t want me to cling on to hatred and revenge. You take me in, and I’ll serve you to the best of me ability. I’ll cook for you, clean. Wash ya clothes, wash ya hair. I’ll fish, I’ll even fight for you if I have too. All that I ask is that you remain good, and just. Give me last days some meaning, make the memory of me husband and sons proud. If me service is not good enough, if my cooking turns shit or makes you sick, then you can do what you will with me.”

Alora’s words stalled Arya, she glanced up to her sister and noticed the ice that once marked Sansa’s face changed to one showing a look of respect. Sansa turned to Arya, “It’s your choice,” she said.

“If your service fails me, I’ll throw you overboard,” Arya said bluntly.

Alora only smiled her toothy grin. “Then I’ll swim with the mermaids.”

Arya decided that she liked this woman. “Welcome aboard,” she said. Then glanced at the young woman besides Alora. Though this woman mostly looked to the ground, the whole time Arya stood before her, she caught the woman taking glances at Arya, long, drawn-out glances. Though she was only a commoner, she had a beauty about her. “What about you? What’s your name?” asked Arya.

“Tessa,” said the fair-haired girl timidly. “Tessa Fairmanne, M’lady.”

“I’m not your lady,” Arya replied with a flat tone. “What can you offer my crew?”

“I’m sorry… I can sing, my lad… erm.”

“I don’t have much use for singers.”

“Yes, because apparently you can sing yourself,” Sansa muttered from beside Arya so that only the two of them could hear. Arya glared up at her, and Sansa held back a laugh.

“No…,” said Tessa uneasily. “But maybe your men do.”

A murmur of agreement came from the men. “Wouldn’t say no to a song now and again,” Gidden said.

“Songs can lift the spirits,” added Holt.

“And a sea shanty makes sailing the rough seas easier,” Pratt finished.

Arya’s eyes scrolled across the men, then fixated onto Tessa who was smiling at the men who agreed with her. But upon noticing Arya, her smile faded, and she immediately cowered back. “I can also set bones…” she added meekly. “I can stitch many types of wounds… I can make milk of the poppy or dreamwine. My uncle was a maester, he taught me much.”

“That’s more like it,” said Arya “But you're timid and afraid. This journey we go on will be difficult. Why do you want to join?”

Tessa did not answer. Instead, she looked at her feet, apprehensively and fiddled with her hands. Suddenly Sansa stepped forward and spoke to Tessa in a soft voice. “Tell Arya, what you told me, Tessa.”

Tessa’s meek eyes glanced at Arya, and she gathered the courage to speak. “I don’t know if you remember, my la… erm, Arya… But when the dragon was burning the city, I saw you. You came into the building I was hiding in with a group of women and children.”

“I remember,” said Arya. She remembered that day all too well. She remembered every painful memory over the past seven years. “I didn’t think anyone survived.”

Tessa nodded her head and gave a small smile. “We did… some of us did… You came in and told us we needed to leave. And we started to, just after we left, the dragon burned the building down. But…”

“But what?”

“I was with my little sister in that building, but in all the chaos of trying to escape and the dragon coming back down. I lost her… After the battle, I returned to where I last saw her… and… and…” Tessa began weeping profusely, though as she did, she pulled out a small wooden object from underneath her white dress. Although the object had become blackened with soot and fire, Arya could see that it had once been a small toy ship.

“This was my little sisters…” Tessa continued, fighting back the tears. “Father made it for her… she had it with her when she was burned alive… This is all that I have left of her and my family…” Arya could not help but feel her heart sink. This story brought back images of the young girl and her mother that Arya had tried to help but failed. The young girl with the small wooden toy horse. Tessa wiped her red cheeks and continued. “My father was a sailor. And my little sister dreamed of going sailing with him and eventually sailing herself on her adventure across the seas. She wanted to go to the Summer Isles, to Skagos. She wanted to visit the Targaryen Islands and then go west. She wanted to go on an adventure.”

Arya stepped forward and took the toy ship from Tessa’s hands and studied it. It was nothing special, a crudely made ship, carved with a knife. But it meant the world to Tessa. “What was your sister’s name?” she asked.

“Sera,” Tessa said, her lips shook when she spoke.

Arya handed her back the wooden ship, “You want to join us for the memory of your sister?”

Tessa nodded. “I have nothing left here… I never wanted adventure, but Sera did. So maybe I can give her that by taking her ship with me… and remembering her. Maybe she is watching me from the seven heavens…”

“Maybe she is,” said Arya. “We aren’t going to Skagos or to the Summer Isles. But we will be stopping at the Targaryen Islands. And the first place we discover across the Sunset Sea will be named after your sister, Sera Fairmanne.”

More tears fell from Tessa’s eyes, but a broad smile she gave to Arya joined them. “Thank you… my, erm... I—”

“Captain. I am thinking is a suitable title,” said a voice that belonged to the fifteenth person. The man dressed in purple and blue garments with a rapier at his side. His skin was tanned and his head bald. He had the accent of a Braavosi.

“Arya,” Sansa began. “This Lyno Alestor.” The man bowed extravagantly and gave them all a wide grin.

“You’re from Braavos,” Arya stated.

“Indeed. And you lived there no? Was trained by a Braavosi? A First Sword himself.”

“You know this?”

“Yes, it is why I wish to join you. I knew Syrio Forel by reputation only. But to be trained by a man, nine years as First Sword… Ah, a great honour.”

Arya smiled to herself, thinking of Syrio. “Were you a First Sword?”

Lyno laughed jauntily. “No, no. But! Seven years Lyno Alestor was Boatswain in the Sealord’s crew. Before that, he was a Bravo, water dancing by the Moon Pool. Now he comes to these Sunset Kingdoms for more adventure, and he hears tales of a small woman that killed a demon, and now this woman, who Lyno learns was trained by Syrio Forel himself, wishes to become a pioneer and seeks a crew to go on a grand adventure. How could Lyno resist, hmm? I have served and lived on ships my entire life, I know the will of the seas and the crash of their waves. I know the hums that come from a ship’s hull and the songs to sooth it. Arya Stark, it would be my honour, to be your First Mate.”

When she stepped back and ran her gaze over the people before her, they were all looking to her for what she would say next. Some had wide eyes, and others were smiling. Some, like Alora, stood impossible still, waiting though they were all looking to Arya, to their Captain.

Arya swallowed dryly. “I’ve been on a few ships, helped around on decks before. Travelled to Braavos and back. But I am not the most experienced when it comes to ships and being a captain. And the journey we take will not be kind. We may not ever return to Westeros. We might very well die. You won’t get gold or silver. I cannot offer you a castle or fortress from where you can grow old and fat. There will be little comfort where we go. If you follow me, I will take you down a cold and brutal path… But if you do, if you fight for me, if you stay loyal to me… it will be a path that the world will remember. Your families may have died in all these shit wars that had nothing to do with you. But their names and yours will not be forgotten, because the world will know of this crew, the men and women that sailed west to discover a new world.”

The men and women of her crew nodded their heads in agreement, Mikel cheered, Alora shot a toothy grin. Tessa’s eyes lit up, and Arya made her final word. “Follow me, and you will have my oath. I do not care if you are high or low born. Or if you’re a Northerner or Southerner. I will fight for every one of you. My sister has found you all suitable to join me, and I trust her judgement. My mind is clear on what I want to do, though I cannot do it without you. Will you still join me?”

“Aye!” Mikel boomed.

“Aye,” said Alora with her guttural voice.

“Aye,” Lyno said with his notable Braavosi accent.

“Aye,” Tessa said immediately after. Though it was not timid like she usually was, she announced it with bluster and eagerness all while still holding in her hand, her dead sister’s toy ship. One by one the others joined the Northmen, the Valemen, the three men of King’s Landing. This was Arya’s crew. This is who she would probably be spending the rest of her life with. She was their Captain, their leader.

As their new Captain, Arya gave her first orders. Which was to take the supplies Samwell Tarly had brought and kept them safe until her ship was ready. She gave them gold to buy supplies; food, ale, wine, clothing, blankets. And she gave them all a bit extra, so they may enjoy their last few days in Westeros however they so like. Lyno Alestor offered to stay by Arya’s side, as her guard of sorts, but she denied him. She could look after herself.

Sansa and Arya returned to the inside of the Red Keep, slowly making their way back to the Small Council Chambers and to Estyr, who Arya hoped, had not stopped training. Neither of them spoke as they walked until they reached the chambers and stood on the platform that overlooked the map on the floor, where Estyr, to Arya’s pleasure, was still practicing her drills. The Dornish girl’s hair was damp with sweat, she panted after each drill, and though she knew Sansa and Arya had returned, she barely glanced at them.

“Who’s the girl,” Sansa suddenly asked, while they looked toward Estyr.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me about her,” said Arya.

“Tyrion told me you started training some common girl. So, who is she?”

“Her name is Estyr. She’s an orphan. Unsullied murdered her mother during Daenerys’ attack on the city. I intended to speak to you about her.”

“What about her?”

Arya glanced to the floor and bit her lip. “Sansa, you’ve done a lot for me. But I was hoping you could do one last favour.”

“Say it.”

“When I leave… I don’t want Estyr to stay in King’s Landing, even with Bran as King… It’s…”

“A shit city,” Sansa offered.

“Yes,” Arya agreed. “Could you take her back to Winterfell when you go? Give her a home, hire someone to finish her training. Give her a purpose and something to live for.”

Sansa looked at her with startling curiosity. “This is unlike you. What is it about this girl that makes you want to do all this?”

“If she is left on her own, she might go and seek things that will get her killed. She watched her mother get murdered by Unsullied. She watched her home and her friends get burned. She has revenge in her heart. I hope that the training takes her focus and being surrounded by good people does more to quell her heart.”

“But why her? Some simple common girl? What about all the others who lost their families?”

Arya sighed. “Because I think Bran wanted me to find her. Estyr has a secret she won’t tell me because she promised someone, she would keep it,” Arya gazed down at Estyr who still trained relentlessly. “And…because, she reminds me of myself, and I don’t want her to have the life I did.”

“Well,” Sansa began. “She is about as small as you… so…”

In response to her sister’s jest. Arya took the pouch of golden dragons she still held, and forcefully rammed it into Sansa’s stomach, though the black breastplate Sansa was one to wear, took most of the impact. Sansa grabbed the pouch, laughing lightly. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“Coins, to pay for a trainer for Estyr, hire a water dancer from Braavos. Estyr is quick and well suited to that style of fighting, and it’s what I have been training her in most, with a few other techniques she can continue to learn on her own. Give her a horse, a home. Make her your ward.”

“You trust her, even with a secret she won’t tell you? You’ve known her for little over a week. She isn’t one of us, Arya.”

“And she never will be. But I’ve talked to her a lot, she says her secret won’t affect us, and she has no reason to want to harm any of us, and the more time she spends in Winterfell and with you, the more she will respect you. She admires the Starks, for what it’s worth. She’s heard the stories, she asked all about Jon and Bran. And you.”

Sansa stayed quiet for a moment, and Arya knew she was thinking over everything that had just transpired, all the words, all their meaning and all their implications. “Why would Bran do this?” Sansa suddenly asked.

“I don’t know,” Arya admitted. “And I know if I ask him, he won’t give me a straight answer.”

“It must have something to do with Dorne,” Sansa contemplated.

“Why? Because she’s Dornish?”

“Yes, why not? Perhaps she is the daughter of the Dornish Prince, what was his name? Olyvar Yronwood.”

“Where is your mind going?”

“There was a civil war in Dorne after the Sand Snakes were killed.”

“I didn’t know that,” admitted Arya.

“Nobody outside of Dorne really paid it much attention, the Dornish have always done their own thing. And we had larger concerns,” Sansa said. “The Yronwoods took power, but it is hardly stable. And Olyvar Yronwood has said that his wife is barren, and he has no heirs, but it is easy enough to lie about that. I guess that Estyr, is a Yronwood, the Yronwood’s enemies found out about her, and she was sent to King’s Landing in secret because her father fears she might be killed or kidnapped to destabilise the region. So Olyvar has no heirs of any kind. Send her the last place the Dornish would expect to find her, or even want to go to.”

“Unfortunately for the Prince of Dorne, King’s Landing was burned down,” said Arya.

“Yes, then Bran found out about her and to keep her alive and keep good faith with the Prince of Dorne, he has planned it so you would train her to help protect her and then she would go far North, safe and sound while the Yronwoods quell their kingdom.”

Arya began to rack her mind of all the implications of what Sansa had just said, but one thing did not seem to make sense. “We spoke to Olyvar Yronwood before the Dragonpit meeting,” Arya began. “He said directly to you, that he had a wife in Dorne called Gwyneth. Estyr said her mother’s name was Allyria and she that died in King’s Landing. It doesn't match up, how could Estyr be Olyvar Yronwood’s daughter?”

“Perhaps one of them isn't her true mother or, both Estyr and Olyvar could have been lying,” Sansa refuted with a wave of her hand. “It’s not out of the question, Olyvar is the Prince of Dorne and a powerful, smart man. He would have taught Estyr what to say, and how to say it, to keep people from finding out the truth.”

“I know when people lie, Sansa,” Arya objected. “Olyvar wasn’t lying when he spoke to you. Estyr wasn’t lying either, and her lust for vengeance for the murder of her mother is not something people can fake easily, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.”

Sansa took a deep breath, then turned to look into Arya’s eyes. “Regardless of what it is, it clearly has something to do with Dorne. But don’t worry, I will take Estyr to Winterfell, I will find her a trainer, I will give her purpose, I will make her my ward. I promise to do all that you ask, Arya. But if what I think about Estyr is true in some way or another, and this ends up becoming a threat to the North. I will give her up. I know you care for her, but I have a kingdom to protect, hundreds of thousands of lives. I cannot risk the threat of another war or even skirmishes with some flagrant Dornish houses that want Estyr, and the Yronwoods deposed or dead. Especially when it regards the Six Kingdoms of which the North is not a part of.”

Arya knew that this was fair; she was already asking for too much as it was. “I understand, thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa put a hand on Arya’s shoulder and squeezed it caringly. Then she left, and Arya stood alone, watching over Estyr. The Dornish girl continued her drills, her thrusts, her pirouettes, her footwork, her stance, her dance. But as Arya continued to observe the girl, she noticed Estyr movements, came with a violent grunt and each proceeding thrust came with harrowing force. She watched on, and Arya’s mind began to wander. Images of war flashed into her mind’s eye — the relentless assault of the Army of the Dead, their piercing howls as they attacked and attacked. Her wrist and neck burned as she remembered the clanger of steel that rang and the screams of people who died to the Night King’s slaughter. Arya shook her head to rid it of the memories, and she looked down to her hand and noticed it was shaking.

Suddenly she heard a cry from Estyr, a howl of anger. Arya looked to the Dornish girl, who was at one end of the room, hitting and wailing on a stone pillar. She smashed her wooden practice sword again and again, against the pillar and cried with anger all the while. “ESTYR!” Arya called to her, but the girl did not seem to hear her. She continued her relentless attack on the pillar, grunting and shrieking. But between each grunt, came a sob. Arya ran down the steps of the platform and towards Estyr.

“HEY!” Arya called, Estyr suddenly turned and at the same moment, swung her practice sword at Arya without thinking. Arya grabbed it quickly and ripped it from the girl’s hands. Estyr’s eyes were red with tears, and her face, flush with anger. Arya looked over the wooden sword. Its blade was chipped and splintered. “You’ve damaged your sword.”

“Sorry…” Estyr sobbed quietly.

Arya threw the sword to the ground and placed a hand on Estyr’s shoulder. “This is the second time you’ve done something like this,” Arya said. And this was true. Early in their training Estyr had seemed to lose control, she began swinging her sword around her and screaming angrily while she did it. Once Arya had calm her down, the girl started to cry. But this time, Estyr was already crying and was shaking with anger at the same time.

“I’m sorry…” Estyr said once more. “I just started to think about Allyria again and how she died. And then I began to think of killing the Unsullied, and I got angrier and angrier… I can’t get the image of her dying out of my head. And I get angry knowing that I didn’t try to help.”

“You would have died had you tried to save your mother. And she wouldn’t have wanted that. I know that it is hard to believe, but staying quiet and small and hiding away, was the smartest thing you could have done. I know that your mother would want you to live. And I know what it is like to feel what you are feeling. Trust me. I watched people I love die, and I tried to run to them and stop it, but I had people looking over me that took me away, had they not, I would have died.”

Estyr sobbed harder, then she suddenly fell into Arya’s arms and wrapped her own around Arya’s waist. Arya hugged her back, but she began to worry. Worry that perhaps training Estyr was not the right thing to do, she thought it would keep her mind busy, but it only seemed to bring out an anger in the girl. But it was too late to stop, and Estyr would continue her training even if Arya forbade it. Arya hoped that Sansa could give Estyr more in Winterfell.

“I’ve got a present for you,” Arya said into Estyr’s ear.

Estyr stepped out of the hug and wiped her teary eyes. “A present?”

Arya still held in her hands the steel wrapped in cloth. She placed it on the ground between them, unwrapped the material to expose a short sword housed in supple leather. Arya lifted it, and slowly drew the sword from its scabbard. Estyr’s eyes widened as she watched, and a smile crept on her face.

“This is very sharp,” Arya said, and she handed the blade to Estyr. “Be careful.”

The short sword was almost identical to Needle, it was the same length, with the same style of blade. Thin and sharp, made for thrusting. Though the hilt had the same material as Needle, a leather-wrapped handle with a bronze crossguard and pommel, and while Needle had its crossguard and pommel fashioned with an image of a weirwood face and a weirwood tree. Arya had asked Gendry for something different with Estyr's sword. She had the crossguard of Estyr’s sword finished with the image of a falling star and the pommel, was formed into the shape of the sun. Gendry’s work was better than Arya could have imagined. She saw the image of a falling star in the centre of the bronze crossguard distinctly, and the sun-shaped pommel was both menacing, and beautiful.

“You said that a falling star and the sun were the most beautiful things,” said Arya. “So I had them placed on the hilt, see?”

“I do! I love it! It’s like Needle. This for me?” Estyr asked, smiling wide.

“It is, they use swords like this in Braavos and Pentos and the other Free Cities. Does the weight feel good?”

“I think so,” Estyr waved the blade around in front of her. “It’s lighter than the wooden sword.”

“Yes, but you should still practise with the wooden sword to make your arms strong as they need to be. This is castle-forged steel, made by an excellent blacksmith. It’s very sharp, but you have to look after it, no whacking it against pillars.”

“I promise I won’t! That man that came here before did he make this?”

“Yes.”

“He’s handsome,” Estyr said coyly.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Arya smiled, and she continued her smile as she watched Estyr twirl her blade in her hands and then thrust and thrust joyfully. And suddenly Jon Snow’s smile flashed before Arya’s eyes. “All the best swords have names you know,” Arya said.

Estyr stopped and once again looked at the blade, running her fingers gently across its edges, then down its hilt. “Starfall,” Estyr said sullenly.

* * *

Arya's ship finished days later. Bran and Tyrion had told her the day before, and she had only seen the vessel from a distance away. All she knew of it was what Lyno had told her, that it was small, but its design meant it would be fast. “It would glide across the seas, like the wind through trees,” Lyno had said. Now it was early morning, the sun peered slightly over the horizon, but the night still held power as Arya strode quietly through King’s Landing, toward her ship. She had given orders to her crew, to prepare to set sail early in the morning, she had told Estyr that she would be going to Winterfell with Sansa, but she did not say when Arya herself was going to leave. She spoke to Bran and Tyrion, but did not ask about the truth of Estyr. She realised that she did not want to know. She had not seen Sansa for several days, but Arya left her white mare for Sansa to ride back north. Sansa would know that as a thank you. Arya wanted to sail away quietly, without fuss or goodbyes, because she hated them. She never told anyone that she planned to leave today and in such a way, the only people that knew where her crew, and she swore them to secrecy.

King’s Landing was quiet in these early hours, only the sound of the wind and the nearby waves of Blackwater Bay reverberated across the strangely calm city. Arya stepped noiselessly and quickly through the city. Most of the rubble in the streets she walked through had been cleared, which made it easier to navigate. She stepped through the street called River Row, out into Fishmonger’s Square. Then she snuck past the Gold Cloak’s that guarded the River Gate and stepped out into King’s Landing’s docks, where she marched toward her ship docked at a pier. But the dock that her ship anchored at was not barren as she had planned. Standing all along the pier, were people. Someone had let slip that she was leaving. She ground her teeth with frustration but kept walking. As she came closer to the pier and the mass of people, she noticed Lyno Alestor at the very front, before the wooden planks of the pier.

She approached him, with her hand on the hilt of Needle on her waist. “Who spoke?”

“No one, Captain. I swear it. You can ask your crew yourself. Not a one let it slip. They wouldn’t do that. They had no reason to,” Lyno pleaded.

She accepted his response, Lyno’s face held no lie; he truly believed what he said. She would find the truth out regardless of who spoke up about Arya leaving on this day, at this time. Arya stepped passed him and onto the pier. Before her, stood Ser Podrick Payne, Ser Brienne of Tarth, and Ser Davos Seaworth.

“Thought you could sneak away, eh?” Davos said, grinning.

Arya gave him a curious eye, “Was it you that found out I was leaving early?”

Davos laughed, “No! Ha. Someone much smarter than me,” he glanced at Arya’s ship behind him, then turned back to Arya. “I helped find her. She’s a fine ship. Her grey sails will go fast,” Davos would know, his opinions on ships carried much weight, given his history before he became a knight. And it was because of that history, that Bran named him as his Master of Ships. Arya had not spoken to Davos that much in the past, but he had been fiercely loyal to Jon, and the Starks. And he was half the reason Jon was even alive.

She offered him her hand. “Thank you for your help, and for staying besides Jon.”

Davos took her hand immediately, “It’s been my honour, I don't think I will ever forget how I saw you fight off the dead at Winterfell. I hope to see you again, my lady.”

“Don’t count on it, farewell Ser Davos.”

Davos’ eyes went sad, but he nodded knowingly. Arya’s eyes followed him as Ser Davos walked past and stepped off the pier. Arya turned back to Brienne and Podrick. Sansa said they were two of the most honourable and trustworthy people in all Westeros, Arya agreed.

“I have to thank you both, for protecting my sister,” Arya said to them.

“You never need to, my lady,” Podrick said, flashing his wide grin.

“It has been an honour to serve you and Sansa,” Brienne added. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.”

“And you, Ser Brienne.”

The two knights bowed at Arya and walked off the pier. Arya continued her walk of goodbyes as the waves gently rocked below her under the wooden pier and the eastern sunrise began to light the side of her face. Tyrion stood, in his fine garments, the gold brooch of the Hand of the King pinned to his sable doublet. Beside him stood a tall man that Arya did not recognise. He also wore fine clothes, with a flamboyant cape attached at the back. His slick brown hair combed back, outlined a thin and hard face with a stubble beard and moustache. As she came closer to them, she thought that the fine clothes on the tall man did not seem to suit him at all.

“Captain,” Tyrion said with a satirical tone.

“Lord Hand,” Arya replied just as coyly. “Is this man your guard?”

“Fuck that!” the man blurted.

“No… Arya this is—”

“Lord Bronn Blackwater,” announced the tall man. “Lord of Highgarden and Master of Coin.” He gave her a half-assed bow though Arya did not respond. She only looked at him, unimpressed. Bronn and Tyrion glance at each other.

“My lady, Lord Bronn has come to King’s Landing to fulfil his duties as Master of Coin. And he heard of the stories of you and wished to meet you,” Tyrion said.

“So he’s met me,” Arya said uncaringly.

“Aye,” Bronn replied. “And you’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be”

“And you look like someone tried to polish a pile of horse-shit,” Arya shot back.

Bronn, to Arya’s surprise, suddenly laughed. “You little cunt,” he said between chuckles

Arya smirked and Tyrion stepped forward, putting a hand on Bronn’s arm. “Lord Bronn, may I speak to the Lady Arya alone?”

“Be my fucking guest,” Bronn said, and he strode off, leaving them to be.

“You keep the strangest company, Tyrion,” Arya said.

“Not by want,” Tyrion relaxed his shoulders, then smiled at Arya. “You have everything you need?”

“I believe so,”

“That’s good. I wish I knew what you were heading into, give you some advice. But no one really knows what you’ll find.”

“That’s okay. You’ve given my family and me much advice. I thank you for it.”

“Even though I served a different queen? A queen you and Sansa never trusted, and were right about?”

“We all make mistakes,”

Tyrion chuckled. “I once hoped that I would live out my days with my own vineyard. Make my own wine. Call it, ‘The Imps Delight’. I would have given you a few barrels to take west, sent some to Winterfell for Sansa, to the Wall for Jon. Have some barrels in King’s Landing for Bran and his council, you know, only let my close friends drink it. But I fear the mistakes I have made would now see those dreams an impossibility.”

“I used to dream about being a knight,” Arya began. “To ride off and fight alongside father, and Jon and Robb and Bran. Our dreams never really come true.”

“No?” Tyrion said puzzled. “You became a great warrior, fought alongside Jon and many others at Winterfell. People call you a hero.”

“And I’ve seen things I wish I could forget. I’ve lost people I loved and pushed others away. And there is a big part of myself that I’ve lost. I’ve killed so many people. I’ve lost count. I can’t sleep, and when I do, nightmares come. If our dreams do come true, its never the way we want.” Arya felt her eyes well up, but she would not allow her tears to flow. She felt Tyrion’s hand on her shoulder.

“Years from now,” Tyrion began. “When people ask me ‘Did you know the Hero of Winterfell? Who was she? What was she like?’ I will take great pride in saying that I did know her, that she saved millions of lives and did not even bat an eyelash at it. That she was a fierce warrior with a strong heart and a great family. Arya, I know you have all these thoughts because of your harrowing journey. But you should not let them shape or dictate who you are.” Arya stared at the dwarf of Lannister into his mismatched eyes, and he smiled back.

Tyrion pat her shoulder gently then began to walk away. Arya turned her gaze to him as he left, “Tyrion,” she called.

He stopped his waddle and faced her. “Yes, Arya?”

“Your talents are wasted on a vineyard,” Arya said.

Tyrion’s face lit up. “Was that a compliment from Arya Stark?” he asked teasing.

Arya smiled, “Your only one.”

Tyrion left with a wide grin and the pier was now empty, aside from two others. Arya expected to see Sansa on the pier, but she was not there. She did not appear to be on the ship either. It was just Bran and Estyr next to each other, just before the ramp that led onto Arya ship. Her ship she now had a proper look at. It was small, at least compared to one of the ships of the Royal Fleet or Euron Greyjoy’s Fleet. But Arya did not mind. She had no use for a large warship. Her favourite part that she had not seen until this moment was the figurehead on the prow of her ship. It was a snarling direwolf head. The same as the House Stark banners, and it made her swell with pride. Arya strolled to the end of the pier were Estyr and Bran were, their backs facing Arya, looking at the ship. As she came closer, Estyr turned. Her face shuddered with tears.

“Do you have to leave?” Estyr sobbed.

“No, I don’t have to. I want to,” Arya admitted.

“Why?!”

“Because I want to explore, to see things no other has. And I won’t get that here. Especially not after everything that has happened.”

Estyr shook her head violently. “You haven’t finished my training!”

“You’ll finish it in Winterfell.”

“No! I want you to keep training me!” Estyr cried, and her tears flowed even harder. She dropped her head down, staring at the water beneath the pier. “I want… I… Everyone leaves me.”

Arya placed a hand on Estyr shoulder, lifted her chin with the other, so they looked into each other’s eyes and wiped the tears from Estyr’s cheek. “You’ve got your Starfall?”

Estyr placed a hand on the pommel of the thin blade Arya had given her. She had strapped the sword to her side by a crude leather belt. "Yes," she said, as another tear streamed down her cheek.

“Then I will always be by your side,” Arya said, and Estyr sobbed profoundly and fell into Arya’s chest. They held onto each other for a long moment, Estyr cried and cried, and Arya herself felt the tears coming. Eventually, Estyr too walked off the pier, and all who were left was Bran — sitting in his wheelchair, gazing at Arya’s ship. She stepped up beside him.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“It is a fine ship,” King Bran said.

“So I’ve been told,” Arya replied.

“You are mad at me,” said Bran.

“I wanted to leave quietly, without a fuss. You should put a limit on your abilities.”

“It wasn’t me that organised these goodbyes,”

Arya furrowed her brow. “Then, who?”

Bran looked up to her from his chair and gave her half a smile. “Who do you think?

Arya scoffed at herself, how foolish could she have been, of course, it was her. “Where is she?”

“Sansa will be here before you leave.”

“Good… Bran, about Estyr. Sansa thinks she is the daughter of the Prince of Dorne. Is she right? Do you have something to do with me meeting and training her? Did you warg into my horse that day I was at Gendry’s old shop?”

“I may have been,”

“Stop answering me in riddles, Bran. Estyr said her secret wouldn’t threaten our family, but if it does—”

“You cannot protect everyone, Arya. You have done your part. It is time you go west and seek out what your heart desires. Rest assured, Estyr, Sansa and Jon will be safe.”

“What about you?” Arya asked earnestly.

“I am King. I am the safest I could be.”

“Tell that to Aerys Targaryen.”

“I don’t think I’ll be burning any cities.”

Arya gazed down at Bran who was smiling to himself. “Did you just make a joke?”

Bran eyed Arya but kept smiling. “Was it funny?”

“No,” Arya said, but she contradicted herself when she began giggling.

“Then why are you laughing?” Bran said.

Arya did not answer because she couldn’t stop laughing. For the first time, in a long, long time, Arya saw a glimpse of her little brother that was still inside this Three-Eyed Raven. But the laughter turned to sadness when the sound of Ser Podrick came as he walked up the pier, intending on wheeling Bran off. Before he did though, Arya grabbed Bran’s hand and held it tight, and Bran reciprocated the touch.

“Farewell, Bran,” said Arya.

“Farewell, Wild Wolf,” Bran said with a sullen gaze.

Arya furrowed her brow at the name he gave her, but their hands parted as Podrick pushed Bran back down the peer. Arya did her best to fight the tears that she felt building in her eyes, though, one escaped. She wiped her cheek harshly then turned back and walked up the ramp onto her ship. Her crew was busy making final preparations to sail. They hustled back and forth across the decks, shouting words to each other. Carrying barrels and bags and cages with ravens in them. As Arya drew her gaze across the ship and her crew, she noticed Alora marching toward her.

“I’ve just finished setting up the Captain’s Cabin. It’s all yours,” said the woman. Arya followed her and then stepped inside the cabin, where Alora left her alone. The back of the cabin was layered with windows that looked out into the sea. Below the windows was a table, on which the books and maps and navigation equipment from Samwell Tarly rested. The corners of the cabin housed an elegant bed, trunks full of clothes, chest for storing items and on the wall, a weapon rack where she could store her swords. The rack had a wooden placard behind it, upon which engraved a snarling direwolf. She continued to take in her new home, but interruption came when a knock echoed on her cabin’s door.

“What is it?” she asked the person who knocked.

“Captain,” came the voice of Lyno Alestor. “Lady Sansa is here.”

Arya rushed outside to see Sansa standing by the edge of the ship. Her hands behind her back and her red hair flowing in the wind. She stared toward the rising sun. “Who told you I was going to leave early?” Arya asked her when she came near.

“No one,” said Sansa. “I knew you would try to sneak away. So I gathered as many people as I could to the pier. Don’t think you can leave without a goodbye.”

“I don’t like goodbyes.”

“Neither do I. But I know that I would regret not saying a proper farewell to you,” Sansa said, and she turned to look at Arya.

When Sansa looked at her, Arya thought she would see the same stoic look that often marked Sansa’s face. But that was not the case. Sansa’s eyes were red, her lips were trembling, and her cheeks were already wet with tears. The sight broke Arya, and she felt her own face crumble with sadness.

"I like how you've done your hair," said Sansa trying to masks the tremble in her voice. Of course, she was the only one to notice this change and be the one to compliment Arya on it. Arya's hair was no longer in the Northern style like Jon, or their father had done their hair. She had pulled it all back tightly into a bun — a new style, for a new time.

"Thank you," Arya responded with the presence of a small laugh that hid her sadness.

Sansa breathed in deeply. “This a fine ship, have you given it a name?”

Arya wiped an eye, then cast her view across her ship, her crew had finished work, and they all stood at the very back, waiting for orders. “I’ve been told that it’s a fast ship and that her grey sails will glide across the sea like the wind. I think Grey Wind is a good name.”

She saw Sansa smile proudly. “That is a good name. Robb would have liked that.”

“I think so,” Arya said. There came a quietness between them, the sound of gulls and the water below, resonated around them. And an uncertainty came too, but it had come because Arya did not know what to say, she did not want to say goodbye, it felt too soon, and somehow she knew Sansa was thinking the same. Instead, Arya finally drew the courage to say and do, what she felt she should have done a long time ago.

“Back in Winterfell, before the Long Night,” Arya began her speech to Sansa. “Daenerys Targaryen thought that she was our queen, that we should kneel to her. She was never my queen. I would have never knelt to her.”

The last time Arya had knelt for anyone was Robert Baratheon. And back then she did not do it because she wanted to, but because she had to. People expected it of her. Yet she had no care for it all the same. Though on this day when she knelt for Sansa Stark. She knelt for her queen. For her sister. She did it because it was what she wanted and because it is what Sansa deserved. Arya lowered her head and bent her knee. She felt the coldness of the wooden deck as her knee touched the ground and she held her head low, kneeling before the Queen in the North.

“Your Grace...” Arya announced, swelling with pride for her sister and her family.

When she heard the sound of crying, Arya lifted her head to look at Sansa who had lost control and her tears streamed down her cheek. Sansa made no attempt to wipe them away, instead, she placed both her hands on Arya’s arms and lifted her, but before Arya could say or do anything, Sansa hugged her fiercely. Sansa’s hug was warmer than sunlight. It was an embrace snugger than the finest furs on the finest bed. Arya heard her sister cry in her ear and the reality of the situation suddenly sunk in. She realised she was probably never going to see her home of Winterfell again. She would never see her little brother Brandon Stark again. She would never see Jon Snow’s smile. And she would never see Sansa Stark, her sister, her family. Over the last couple of years, the sisters had become closer than they ever were as children. They created a bond that lasted through schemers, dead men, demons, dragons and tyrant queens. Now that bond was ending, as all things would. But Arya wanted it to last longer. However, it was too late now. She had already begun her new journey. Her path was set. Arya threw her hands around Sansa’s neck and suddenly all the emotion of the day erupted out of her. The sisters cried and cried in each other’s embrace. As the rising sun dawned on the sisters of Stark, Arya’s time in Westeros came to an end.

* * *

Grey Wind began its voyage, sailing out to sea heading its course west. A flock of seabirds flew above the ship and sang their morning song. Arya watched her crew work and work, and she saw the grey sails with their direwolf sigil blowing in the wind, and when she cast her eyes down, she glimpsed Tessa Fairmanne standing in the centre of the ship. Her white dress and fair hair blew in the wind just as the sails did, and she held in her hands, her sister’s toy ship. Then Tessa Fairmanne began singing, her own morning song;

_"Lo, the wolves of winter,_

_in their frozen castle abode._

_They remember the woes of past,_

_the betrayal the lions had sowed._

_The twins that mark the river bend,_

_and flayed men the world will never know._

_Now their names are but a memory,_

_that will sink and sunder below._

_When winter comes the world will know,_

_when the wolves howl their song._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come."_


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voyage is taken to the Wall, a city from a loved ones past is visited. And a final order is taken.

“M’lord,” said the former Lannister soldier.

“I’m no lord,’ Jon replied. 

“Well, you’re more of a lord than me,” the former soldier gave a short laugh, then sat on the opposite side of the table Jon sat at, below the decks of Talon, a small ship from Eastwatch by the Sea. “Captain says we're almost at Braavos. Shouldn’t be too long.” 

_Braavos,_ that word made Jon think of Arya. _Sansa can keep her sewing needles, I’ve got a needle of my own._ He grinned to himself.

“Do you know how long we’ll be in Braavos?” Jon asked the soldier.

“Maybe a day or two I think,” he replied. 

Two days would be enough time, Jon just hoped they would let him explore the city a little. Walk where Arya once did, when she sold her oysters and pretended to be other people. Like Cat of the Canals. He smiled at the image of her surviving on the street as another person. Perhaps he could even glance at this ‘House of Black and White’ that Arya had trained in. But Arya said that building was in the centre of the city, in a place called, the Isle of the Gods. Jon doubted he would get the chance.

“Want some,” the former soldier waved a small bottle of ale in front of Jon, and Jon suddenly saw the man's face in full detail. The left side had horrendous burn scars all across it. His hair, which appeared to be red, was speckled across his scalp in the places that had not burnt. He had no eyebrows, and only his right eyelid seemed to stay open. But he smiled when he saw the look of shock on Jon. “First time you seen me up close, eh?”

“Aye, I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“Oh no mind it. Here have some ale,” the soldier poured the warm ale into Jon’s nearby cup. 

“Thanks,” Jon picked up the cup once it was full and held it forward, the soldier clapped his and Jon’s together.

“Cheers. I’m Eddie, by the way,” said the soldier.

“Jon.”

“I know who you are,” said Eddie with a smile.

Jon figured. Eddie was amongst a group of former Lannister soldiers who had survived King’s Landing and sent, by Bran to the Night's Watch, either by choice or because they would not accept their new king. And some would not accept Jon either. For he had been their enemy, the man who led the Stark armies to slaughter a city. For the entire voyage up till now, nobody except the captain and a few of his crew spoke to Jon. Eddie was the first of the Lannister soldiers who he talked too. Jon took a long drink from his ale.

“Not the best stuff, eh?” said Eddie when he saw the nauseated look on Jon’s face.

Jon shrugged. “Better than what’s at the Wall.”

“You used to serve there, right?”

“Aye, you knew?”

“Everyone does. The bastard who became Lord Commander, then King in the North. We’ve all heard the stories.”

“And the man who led a slaughter,” Jon added, _And murdered the woman I loved._

“Yeah, that too,” Eddie took a drink from his cup. “Why you going to the Wall anyway?”

“You don’t know?”

Eddie shook his head.

“I killed Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon admitted.

With that news, Eddie’s eyes broadened considerably. “That was you? Seven hells, we heard someone killed her, but we didn’t know it was you.”

"It was me. King Bran had to send me to the Night’s Watch, or there would have been a war."

“Another? Between who?”

“Sansa Stark of the North, and the Unsullied.”

"Seven hells," Eddie repeated. "So why’d you kill her? Thought the Starks and Targaryen were allies."

"Because she burned thousands of people alive," Jon thought that was obvious. "And because she threatened the whole realm, and my… my sisters."

"Right," Eddie said. Then furrowed his brow with a sudden thought. "So the burning wasn't planned?"

"No. The attack was supposed to stop once the bells rang. But Dany… Daenerys didn't stop… then her armies started killing. Then I lost control of my men."

Eddie let out sharp exhale. "Downright macabre. Normally I'd wonder why she would do such a thing. But I got the idea of her when she attacked us on the Goldroad. That's how I got all these burns. She’s a killer, a relentless killer."

"You were with the Tarlys, and Lannisters Daenerys attacked?" Jon asked.

"Yeah. Her dragon hit our front lines that I was apart of, bunt me real good. Somehow I lived, got treated at King's Landing. Then that shit city started burning; somehow I survived that too. Would rather have just stayed in the Riverlands."

"What was in the Riverlands?" Jon asked curiously.

"There was some trouble up at the Twins. I was part of a small force sent there, and we found the entire family wiped out. Never did figure out what happened, ‘cause we got orders to reinforce the attack on the Reach. All we found at the Twins were dead bodies and stories about some girl and faces and that 'winter had come for House Frey' or some such. Still baffles me on what in the hells happened… no matter now, though. But it was peaceful there, you know? No wars, no dragons, plenty of fresh fish and decent villages. And on the way to the Twins, we'd run into travellers, merchants and the like. You know, normal peace-loving people. We even ran into a young common girl travelling on her own, can you believe it? She sat with us, ate and drank. Said she was going to King's Landing. Said she was gonna kill Queen Cersei! Can you believe that!?" Eddie laughed. 

Jon smiled, he _could_ believe that. "So, did she do it?" It was a stupid question because he knew the answer.

Eddie gave Jon a quizzical look. “I think she was joking, m’lord. Ah, but we all had a laugh, she was good. Nice girl.” He drank from his cup, then gave Jon a queer look as he wiped his mouth. “Come to think of it. She looked a hell of a lot like you.”

Jon smiled again, "Maybe she was a long lost cousin," he jested. In truth, he knew who that girl was, but it was not his place to reveal it. That was Arya's story. And it would always be hers, wherever she might be.

"Maybe!" Eddie chuckled.

"You’re quite cheery, for someone who… you know…"

"For this?" Eddie pointed to his burnt face. "Well, that's kinda why I'm cheery, I suppose. I'm still alive, ain't I? Survived two dragon attacks, who else can say that?"

"What happened doesn't bother you?"

"No, not really. It's what I saw... that bothers me."

"Mhmm," Jon gave a sullen agreement. He knew well the horrors of a dragon attack.

"That's why I'm going to the Night's Watch. Maybe the freezing wall can leech it out of me: the bad memories and all. And because who will have me? My entire left side is dull, can't hold a shield, so I'm no good in the army. Can't get a woman cause of me face, even a whore won't take me. Doesn’t help that I’m a ginger, HA! All's I can do is sing and hold a sword in one shaky hand, and I guess that's good enough for the Night's Watch. Besides, I'm sick of the south now."

"The Wall isn't much better," Jon said. "It's cold and dreary and hard. And once you're sworn to the Night's Watch, you're there for life."

"Not unless I die and get brought back to life, right?"

Jon did not want to explore this conversation further. "I never asked for it." 

Eddie nodded, and the two men each took another drink but spat it up when a sudden, and excruciatingly loud horn blast shook Jon to his bones. “We being attacked!?” Eddie exclaimed.

“Don’t know,” Jon launched himself from his chair and picked up Longclaw that rested in its sheath against the table, and he and Eddie ran up the stairs onto the deck of Talon. But there were no sounds of battle, nor ships attacking. The only visible ones were ones that passed by a reasonable distance away. Then Jon saw it, an immense statue nearly as tall as the Wall. Each of its legs stood on islands that guarded the entrance of Braavos. It was made of stone and bronze and holding a broken sword high in the air. _The Titan of Braavos_ , how could he have forgotten Arya's tales about it.

“The Titan guards the lagoon where Braavos is,” Arya had said, back in Winterfell. _“_ It’s a statue and a fortress. At sunrise, sunset or when ships come near, the titan blast a horn to let everyone know. It’s more like a roar than a horn, its deafening and it shakes your bones when it roars.” Jon had remembered that day fondly, the day he returned to Winterfell with Daenerys, and when he had reunited with Bran, and Arya. He remembered Arya’s smile and the sound of her laughter as they sat together against the weirwood tree in the godswood and talked about their journeys. Or at least the parts they wanted to share at that time. It was not until later when they told each other about the events they would each rather forget.

“Fuck me,” Eddie suddenly blurted from besides Jon, gazing up at the statue in wonderment. “How can men even make such a thing.”

Jon turned to face the ginger-haired Eddie. “Wait 'till you see the Wall.”

* * *

Braavos was a sprawl of tightly compacted buildings of stone leaning upon each other, amongst canals linked by bridges below which murky waters flowed. Thousands of people littered the city, brown or olive-skinned, dark as charcoal or light as a poppy. The ones at the ports wore pale coloured garments of doublets, dresses or tunics and offered friendly smiles. Others Jon passed deeper into the city dressed in flamboyant purples or greens, some with a rapier, similar to Ayra’s Needle, at their side. And yet more wore fine silk of deep blue or blacks, carrying a smoking pipe or a beautiful woman in their hands. Though, to Jon’s bewilderment, in the entire city, not one horse could be seen. Instead, the Braavosi seemed to do all their travelling either by foot or by small boats through the canals of the city.

Jon walked from the port that he learned was called, Ragman’s Harbor, through the narrow streets and alleys of Braavos with Eddie and a few of Talon’s crew. They passed by market stalls teeming with fish and meats, pottery and fine wares, clothing and weapons. As they perused stores the crew brought supplies for the Wall, and Jon ambled by, feigning interest in the stock. Talon was to stay in Braavos for one night, then return to the seas early in the morning, the crew, including the new members of the Watch, were allowed to explore the city, but were to return to the tavern called Pynto’s by nightfall. One of many taverns and brothels at Ragman’s Harbor. Pynto’s just happened to be the cheapest.

Eddie and Jon split from the others and perused a nearby clothing stall. “No point in buying any of these,” Eddie said. “Nothing’s black. Night’s Watch will just take it off us.”

“This is,” Jon said, and he held up a small, child-sized cloak made of sheep’s wool and hard leather all dyed a deep black. “Perfect size for you Eddie.”

Eddie laughed and punched Jon’s arm lightly. “Yeah, righto _m’lord_. You’re no bigger than me. You can take it. I insist.”

Jon smiled but placed the cloak back into the stall. Even if it would fit him, he did not need it. He was provided with clothes before he left, and yet more clothing scraps from across Westeros would arrive at the Wall for its inhabitants. And he needed no cloak. He still wore the one he had when he left King’s Landing. They continued on from the stalls and through the leaning buildings of homes and brothels and taverns that littered all of Braavos, the sound of water flowing through the canals as did the chatter of Braavosi in discrete conversations or loud uproar, or altogether grandiose song. One thing Jon quickly learned about the Braavosi was their love for songs. Everywhere he went the sound of bard or mummer singing a tune came glistening down the narrow alleys of the lagoon city. Whether it was a song he had heard before, such as the Rains of Castamere of the Dornishman’s Wife or a rendition that had never graced his ears.

Songs preceded them as their path through the city led out into a large canal that was twice the size of all the others and strewn across it was larger bridges. However, they were not of stone or wood, like their smaller cousins. These had decorations of fish, crabs and squids. Another bridge flowed with carvings of leafy vines. Another, painted with thousands of eyes, and on they continued, down this wide canal that seemed to lead into Braavos' centre. On each side of the canal flanking the waterways were granite statues of men, wearing bronze robes and each one held a different item. One a book, another an axe. Some a dagger, a hammer or a sword. One such statue closest to Jon held a golden star.

“Oi there!” cried a voice from below them. Jon looked down to the canal waters to see a stout man sitting in a rowboat, offering a toothy grin. “You look like a couple of lost Westerosi. Exploring the city are ya?” The man said.

“Yeah, where are we?” Eddie asked the man.

“You're at the Canal of Heroes of course. These are statues of Braavosi Sealords of years past.”

“Does it lead to the centre of the city?” Jon hoped the answer was what he wanted.

“Yes,” the man replied boastfully. “I can take ya there if ya like? It’ll cost ya, though.”

“How much? All I've got are silver stags.”

The Stout Rower scratched his chin. “I’ll take three silver stags for the both of ya.”

“Three!?” Jon blurted, and he looked to Eddie.

Eddie offered an indifferent look. “I’m keen if your paying.”

The sigh that Jon exhausted was highly exaggerated, but he was curious to explore the city where Arya had once lived, and so, he pulled out three of his eight silver stags and handed them to the stout man in the rowboat.

“What is even in the centre of the city?” Eddie asked as he and Jon climbed into the rowboat.

“Many places, m’lord,” the Stout Rower answered. He pushed off from the walls of the canal and began rowing down between the statues. “The Isle of Gods is home to many temples, the Sept Beyond the Sea, the Temple of the Lord of Light. Temple of the Moonsingers, the House of Black and White.”

 _The House of Black and White_. _“_ "It has a great big double door. One door is made of ebony, the other is made of weirwood.” Jon recalled Arya telling him. They travelled quickly through the Canal of Heroes, past more and more statues of past Sealords and under more unique and strange bridges until the waterways broke out into a vast opening littered with small islands upon which building of different colours stood. One such building they passed was all red and Jon quickly realised that it must have been the Temple of the Lord of Light, Melisandre’s religion. They rowed under a bridge and then slowly through the islands, the stout rower called out the buildings as they passed.

In the distance, was the Temple of the Moonsingers, a large stone white marble structure with a massive silver dome on its top. The Stout Rower continued to name the buildings: The shrine of the Weeping Lady of Lys, the Gardens of Gelenei, the Warren, the Hall of Lord Harmony and on they went. Jon had little interest in these places, but he kept his eyes out for one that had a black and white door. And before even the Stout Rower could name it, Jon saw it. The building sat on a rocky knoll of sharp grey stone. At its front was a single small dock, where grey steps led up to its massive black and white door. Jon looked on in amazement and smiled to himself, though he suddenly spotted a figure in front of the black and white door. It was a tall man, in drab grey robes, his shoulder-length hair was red on one side and white on the other. The tall man’s beady eyes seemed fixated on Jon.

“Who is that?” Jon asked

“No one. You need not worry yourself about it m’lord,” the Stout Rower said with an uneasy edge to his voice. As they continued through the isles, Jon continued to stare at the red and white-haired man even as he faded in the distance, and all the while, the man stared back. The Stout Rower took them back into the small canals of Braavos and together, Eddie and Jon dismounted the rowboat near a bridge called Nabbo’s Bridge and with the setting sun, the two strolled towards Pynto’s tavern.

“See that Moonsinger’s temple?” Eddie said as they walked. “And that Lord of Light temple, red and all? You know, for the last bit of true freedom I’m getting, this has been pretty good. Get to see a city I’ve never been to meet some people, see some sights. Can’t complain, eh? What did you like Snow?”

“Did you see that man at the House of Black and White? The one in the grey robes?” Jon said uneasily.

“Yeah, the one you stared at like a weirdo all the way back? Maybe he was just a priest of that place.”

“Aye, maybe.” 

Before long, they arrived at Pynto’s. It was a bustle even before nightfall, men drank and sang, women who seemed to be sailors, fishers, mummers or whores sang and drank along with them. Most of Talon’s crew seemed to already be there along with the former Lannister soldiers. 

“Come sit with the lads, Snow,” Eddie said to Jon.

“I don’t know if that's a good idea,” Jon replied.

“‘Course it is, c’mon,” Eddie placed a hand on Jon and moved him towards the table with the soldiers. They walked slowly through the tavern, making sure to step over the cats that littered the floor or ran by them. The tavern smelled of sour wine and old, stinky cheese and had a dull rundown look to it but it was warm and eventually, Jon and Eddie found themselves standing in front of the table in the corner of the tavern. The former Lannister soldiers stared up at Jon with disdain. 

“Lads, this is Jon Snow,” Eddie proclaimed.

“Yeah we know Eddie,” said one of the soldiers, who had a rough voice and a deep scar going from his bottom lip down his chin. “You killed the Dragon Queen, eh? Think that means we want to talk to ya?”

Jon turned to Eddie, “I’m gonna find my own table.”

“Nah come on,” Eddie stopped Jon with a hand. “Before we docked I told the boys what you did and what you told me happened in King’s Landing. They’re just being difficult.”

“Aye we’re being difficult,” said the scarred man. “You were a King, weren’t ya? What kind o’ king can’t control his men?”

Jon shook his head with disgust, then turned on the scarred man. “Have you ever led men before? Do you know what it’s like to command thousands? Do you have any idea how all that can crumble in the chaos of a battle? And look on hopelessly as they rape a city?” Jon was shouting now. “Do you know what it’s like to watch dead men destroy your home and kill the people you love!? Do you know what it’s like to see somebody you care for become a monster! Do you know what it’s like to murder someone you love! Do any of you!” The eerie silence that fell on the tavern when Jon finished speaking made him immediately feel uncomfortable.

“Nah, we don’t,” said another former soldier. He was skinny and had a long hooked nose, but he smiled and passed Jon a small cup full of ale. “I’m Keran, the scarred grouch you were talking to is Mott. That’s Ricker and Davis, and you know Eddie. Have a seat, m’lord.”

He grabbed the cup, and Jon slowly sat at the empty seat next Keran, Eddie took one besides Mott. Jon gazed over the soldiers, Mott, Keran, Eddie, Ricker and Davis. Though he was quiet, Mott never seemed to acknowledge Jon, and he soon found out that Mott was sent to the Night’s Watch because he would not accept Bran as his King. Ricker lost his right arm in King’s Landings destruction. Davis lost his daughter and had a terrible limp that prevented him from running or holding anything substantial like a shield up. Keran lost his family and all his friends who were soldiers, to the dragonfire. He did not want to be near King’s Landing because it brought him terrible memories. They all said they had no other skills other than knowing how to fight, they could not stop and become farmers, or herders or any of the sort, because they simply did not know how. Jon once again explained what happened during the attack, and what the actual plan was, though he felt like it was pointless.

“Me saying all this, it means nothing,” Jon said. “Nothing I say can change what happened, or make it… understandable. I just wish… I wish it never happened.”

“We all do,” Davis drawled. “But it happened. We gotta live with it. Hopefully, the Wall gives us some peace, eh?”

“Aye, I’m tired of fighting,” Jon looked to Mott, who did not at all seem to care for what Jon had said. Though Jon took solace in believing that the news Sansa and Varys had spread, of his true name and identity — _Aegon Targaryen —_ had only seemed to be known by the Lords and Ladies of Westeros, and had not passed down to the common folk or soldiers. Not yet, at least. But then a sudden smash on the table jolted their attention to an old man stood, with a face leathered by the sun and a smell to him that made Jon reel back. The man’s clothes seemed so dirty that they looked to never had the grace of a wash and his hair was thin and oily, dangling before his old grey eyes.

“I’m Pynto, this is my place,” The man’s voice boomed louder than any others. “You ladies gonna by some more drinks?”

“How much can a silver stag get?” Jon asked.

“A goblet full of ale for each of you,” said Pynto.

“What about food?”

“Food? I gots food!” a small voice came from the entrance of the tavern and they all looked to see a young girl in an old, worn yellow doublet pushing a cart in front of her that was full of seafood. “Oysters, clams and cockles! A silver stag can get you… a lot!”

The girl pushed her cart further into the tavern, but Pynto turned on her. “Fuck off outta here, Taya. I ain’t give you permission to sell your stink in my tavern.”

“Oh, come on, Pynto! Don’t be a prick. I gotta get rid of this stuff before tomorrow. I’ll split what I earn.”

“Bah… Well alright, but I want sixty per cent.”

“Done!” the girl moved towards the table. Jon sat at. “You boys wanted some food?” Jon studied the girl, she was maybe thirteen or fourteen, skinny and short. With black hair cut just below her ears. For some reason, this girl reminded Jon of Arya.

“You’d better start buying, or she won't shut up,” Pynto said with disdain. “Wish it were Blind Beth instead. At least she was easy to talk to.”

Jon shot the smelly old man a curious look, “Blind Beth?”

“Aye, she came in here often. Would keep to herself but was happy to listen to ya tales. She’s been gone for years though… never did find out what happened to her.”

“I was Cat of the Canals. I was a blind girl for a time. Blind Beth. Then I became Mercy.” The memory of Arya’s voice echoed through Jon’s mind, and now he knew why the girl before him, selling seafood, called Taya, reminded him of Arya.

“Well, you lot gonna buy anything or just gawk?” Taya prodded Eddie with a finger. “What about you? You got a face like a burnt up mutton chop, soothe it with some oysters?”

The entire table laughed, even Pynto. Eddie glared at Taya. “Ain’t you a good salesman,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m a _saleswoman._ C’mon, this is the best in the city. I can hear your tummies grumbling already.”

“I’ll take it all,” Jon said, and he pulled out his remaining five silver stags, handed one to Pynto for the ale and laid out the four before Taya.

Taya cleared her throat. “I gotta be honest, but four silver stags might be too much for what I have left.”

“Then take what it cost, and keep the rest.” Jon had no use for his coins at the Wall.

Taya did not move, only gave Jon a bewildered look. “Who are you, m’lord?”

“Jon Snow,”

“How’d you know he was a lord?” Eddie asked.

“Cause he looks like one,” Taya replied coolly. “And he looks like he’s had years of trouble on his shoulders. You know there are stories going around about a King in the North, called Jon Snow. Saying he came back to life after being stabbed in the heart. That you?”

“Maybe,” Jon replied quickly. He hoped that would end the conversation, and if he was honest with himself, Taya had been right about the years of trouble weighing him down; he did not want to explore that further either.

Taya shrugged, “Well, either way, I’ll remember you, m’lord. ‘The Generous Jon Snow’” she lifted the crate of seafood from her cart and dumped it on the table. Snatched Jon’s four silver stags then sprinted out of the tavern with her cart as quick as a cat, with Pynto furiously chasing after her.

“You little fucker!” Pynto shouted. “Ya ‘sposed to split the COIN!”

“Gotta go, Pynto. Busy, busy!” Taya replied and then shot herself out of the door into Ragman’s Harbor.

Jon shared the seafood with the former soldiers, the crew of Talon and even with Pynto and as the night fell upon Braavos they drank their final ales of freedom before the next day would take them back to the seas and towards the Wall.

* * *

The voyage from Braavos to Eastwatch graced with calm seas and little in terms of activity, Jon mostly stayed below decks, only ever coming above to get air or to help the crew, though his help was rarely needed. Eastwatch by the Sea received him, though it was hardly a warm welcome because there was nobody there, only destruction. Jon saw for the first time, ruin the Night King and his dragon had unleashed: a gaping hole in the Wall that Jon never thought could happen and the complete obliteration of the castle of Eastwatch. The Captain of the ship, Talon. Ordered the former Lannister soldiers to stay at Eastwatch, and he warned them that if they fled, then Lady Sansa would execute them. Jon, however, left Eastwatch quickly to ride for Castle Black, guided by the two Night’s Watchmen who took him from King’s Landing and became part of Talon’s crew, Myke and Rody. Jon didn’t recognize their faces, but on their journey to Castle Black, he found out that they had come from the Shadow Tower, which had been the Wall’s only manned castle on its western edge. When they received the order to retreat from the Wall, they fled to Winterfell and fought at the Battle of Winterfell against the dead.

“It was hell, m’lord,” Rody said one night when they camped by the ruins of Sable Hall. “I’ll never forget it… can’t ever forget it. I still see ‘em, in my dreams… those icy eyes, the sounds they made, the screams…”

“I know, trust me, I know. But we’re alive, we have to do our best to move on,” Jon said in a soothing voice.

But Rody shook his head. “What if I can’t move on, m’lord? What if it haunts me forever? What if they come back!?”

“They’re not coming back, Rody. The Night King is dead. My sister killed him herself. I saw his dragon and all the dead crumble to the ground, and so did you. They are not coming back.”

“Here, brother,” Myke sat next to Rody and put his cloak over the worrying man. “Let’s thank the gods for Arya Stark, eh? Because she killed ‘em. Lord Snow’s right, all those blue-eyed bastards are gone for good. If there is anyone who would know, it’d be him, eh?”

Later on, Jon found out that Myke and Rody were the only men from the Shadow Tower that survived. And only a skeleton crew remained at Castle Black, though calling it a skeleton crew was generous, for the entirety of the one hundred leagues of the Wall, and it’s nineteen castles, ruined or otherwise, only seven men had manned it all. Jon included. The six surviving men of the Night’s Watch returned to Castle Black after the Long Night, simply because they had nowhere else to go. That had not the energy to run, nor the will. They returned to Castle Black because it was familiar and because they had sworn an oath and no one had removed that from them. Seven men along the Wall, whose numbers would be bolstered by the former Lannister soldiers, Eddie, Mott, Keran, Ricker and Davis, once they made their oaths to the Night’s Watch. 

Twelve men, for nineteen castles. There had been a time when a fact of that nature would have concerned Jon to his very bones, but no longer. Back then the Wall was a defence against the Wildlings, who were now friends of the North. Or a bulwark against the real enemy, the White Walkers, who were now extinct and no longer a threat. The Wall had been a defence of great importance, of whom most of the Lords of Westeros only considered it to be a glorified prison. Jon knew that today, and likely for the rest of history, that is all the Wall would be, a prison. When they finally reached Castle Black, Tormund, the remaining Freefolk and Ghost all welcomed him. Once they settled, Jon and Tormund sat alone together in Castle Black’s main hall, with Ghost in the corner, gnawing at a bone.

“Your sister, Sansa,” Tormund began after he chugged down some of his ale. “She sent a raven to back to Winterfell with a letter to give to the Night’s Watch allowing us safe passage. Ain’t many Crows here though, don’t think we’d need the letter, Ha!”

“When are you leaving?” Jon asked.

“Snows are dying down. We’ll be going north in a few days. Come with us, Jon!”

“I want to, but I’m a man of the Night’s Watch… again.”

“Bah! You haven’t made your oath yet. And who’s gonna stop ya going? There’s only six of the crows and hundreds of us Freefolk!”

“I can’t Tormund, Bran and Sansa made a deal. If the Unsullied find out—”

“Ah, fuck those cockless whores! My brothers and sisters, they’re yours too. They love you, Snow. Come with us.”

Before Jon could respond, Myke barged in through the door brushing off light snow from his shoulders. “Forgive me, Lord Snow. But there is a man that wants to speak to you, a lord of some sort. Don’t know who he is.”

Jon looked at Tormund. “You know who it is?”

“Yeah, he arrived just yesterday with some other men all wearing black. He said he was waiting for your arrival. Then he kept to himself. Said he was here for the duty of _King Bran_ , and _Lady Sansa,_ or some horsecock. Said his name was Howland Reed.”

 _Lord Reed?_ The last Jon had heard was that he was still in King’s Landing, why would he be at the Wall and not back in Greywater Watch? And out of what duty for Sansa and Bran? “That’s all he said?” Jon asked Tormund.

“Aye, that’s all.”

“Where is he?” Jon focused this question to Myke.

“On the top of the Wall, m’lord.”

Jon put on his cloak, belted on Longclaw in its scabbard and took the long lift up the Wall, the ride was slower than he remembered. He took the time to gaze at the vastness of the North and it’s melting snow that covered the land, and as he rode the lift he realised the Wall itself was weeping. It was above freezing, and winter felt like it was coming to an early end. Once the lift reached the top, it did not take long to find Howland Reed, some men wearing all black that Jon did not recognize guided him to the Northern Lord, who stood in one of the open alcoves atop the Wall, staring down into the vastness of the lands beyond the Wall.

“My lord,” Jon said from behind Reed.

Lord Reed turned and smiled. “Jon! Good to see you, son.” He offered Jon his hand, and the two men shook briefly.

Jon stepped up beside Howland and joined him in his gaze, northward. “What brings you here, Lord Reed?”

“Well, I have never been to the Wall, Jon. Thought I’d see what all the fuss was about. It’s all beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is, but that’s not what I meant, my lord. Why are you here? Tormund said you spoke of some duty for Bran and Sansa, why? Why did you want to speak to me so urgently?”

Howland gave a short laugh. "You still talk like a king, Jon." then pulled out from inside his doublet, a small parchment letter. “This will probably explain a good deal.” He handed the parchment to Jon. Jon unfolded it eagerly and read its small writing:

_To the men of the Night’s Watch._

_By the authority of Bran the Broken, King of the Six Kingdoms, and Lady Sansa Stark, current de facto ruler of the independent North. For this day, until his death, Lord Howland Reed is named as the 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. All proceeding Lord Commanders will be chosen by vote, as per tradition. And the Night’s Watch will, as always, be impartial to the politics of Westeros._

_Written and signed, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King._

_Signed, Bran the Broken, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

_Signed, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Lady Paramount and de facto ruler of the North._

The silence made Howland Reed smile. “You have questions I gather,”

“Aye,” Jon handed him back the parchment but did not hide his bewilderment. “Why did they make you Lord Commander?”

“They didn’t make me, Jon. I chose it. Due to the circumstances, Sansa and Bran worked together and decided they needed to be sure that the Wall would be properly governed. They knew it would pretty much have to be started from scratch, but they needed someone they trusted to help with that. So I offered.”

“Why?”

Howland sighed heavily. “Look at me Jon, I’m old. Got a crookback, can hardly fight. I sit in Greywater Watch so far away from everything, withering away and doing things that my daughter Meera can do far better. She will be in charge of Greywater Watch and the Neck, she will do a fine job. While I remain here, where I can do something constructive, help the North and Wall rebuild, and look out for you, Make your time here pleasant, for your father.”

Jon cutaway from Howland’s face, and looked northward. “Ned Stark, you mean.”

“He was more your father than Rhaegar Targaryen ever was or would have been, your sisters know it. And so do you.”

Jon never knew what Rhaegar Targaryen looked like he only pictured a tall man with silver-white hair like Daenerys’. But he had a better image of his mother, Lyanna Stark, thanks to her statue in crypts of Winterfell. “Did you know my mother?”

Aye, I knew Lyanna," Howland said with warm pride in his tone.

“What was she like?”

“Beautiful, caring, lovely. She looked a lot like Arya, wild like her too. And the both of them, great swordsmen and great horse riders. They rode like Northmen.”

Jon smiled at the image of Arya and his mother.

“I spoke to Arya before I left King’s Landing,” Howland continued. “She sends her best wishes, and she misses you, she didn’t say that, but it was plain to see.”

“I miss her too… is she well?” Jon asked.

“Aye, she was, healthy and fit. Right now she is likely on her journey west, for new, strange shores.”

“Aye,” Jon continued to stare north, but his mind found itself wandering of Arya, manning the helm of a ship, sailing with the sun on her back. He pictured a taller version of her, with longer hair, but with Arya's deep dark eyes, thick eyebrows, long face and her cute smile and giggling laugh, and her wildness and tenacity. And Jon wondered if that’s what Lyanna Stark would have looked like, would have been like. Howland and he stood in silence, gazing out into the vastness of snow. Jon broke their peace, clearing his throat and said. “You have orders for me, Lord Commander?”

“In fact I do. The men that came with me, in actuality came from King’s Landing. Criminals and broken men who will swear their oath to the Watch. This afternoon I will assign them to their duties, be it the Rangers, the Stewards, or the Builders, then tonight they will make their oaths. As will you.”

“What are you gonna make me, a Steward?” Jon said jokingly. “Or a Builder this time? Can’t say I’ve ever built anything.”

“I was thinking a Ranger. First Ranger in fact.”

Jon turned on Lord Reed quickly, with a look that clearly amused the Lord Commander. “Lord?”

Howland laughed. “I think you’ve earned First Ranger, you are the most experienced of us all. Once that is all done, I will head to Eastwatch by the Sea with some men and swear in those Lannister men in, and we will begin rebuilding Castle Eastwatch and barricading the hole in the wall. But to your original question of orders, I do have a task for you and only you.”

“Anything, Lord.”

“Don’t be so eager… Once you are sworn in, you will guide the Wildlings beyond the Wall and help them find a new home.”

Jon’s mind raced. “Why, my lord? The Freefolk can find their own way.”

“It was not my decision. King Bran and Lady Sansa requested it. They decided the Wildlings should have a guide, they figured it was the least we could do and you know the lands beyond the Wall better than anyone here. Though, I believe it is in fact because they know that you enjoy the company of the Wildlings; your brother and sister want you to be as happy as you can be. But you must return to the Wall, they have given you a year.”

He scrutinized his thoughts and Jon could picture Bran and Sansa talking to Reed, making this entire plan. And he smiled because they were right. Jon did enjoy the company of the Freefolk, even if it were in an icy wasteland. But it was only for a year, until what? Jon perused his mind further, tonight he would be swearing another oath to the Watch, an oath he must keep. But he did not feel at home here, not since his own brothers murdered him. The voyage from Braavos to Eastwatch by the Sea was kind, the former Lannister soldiers no longer glared at him and they often talked, even Mott seemed more friendly. Even still, Jon felt like he would never be welcome in this place, this prison. And he knew he could never trust any of the men, no matter what oaths they swear.

“A year? To find the Freefolk a home, and return to Castle Black?” Jon asked solemnly.

“Aye,” Reed answered.

“What happens if I don’t return?”

“Your fate would be out of my hands, Jon. But as the North is independent now, the Wall falls under the eye of whoever rules the North. Should you not return, your fate and any labels put to your name, would be decided by the King, or Queen in the North.”

“Sansa,” Jon muttered.

“Perhaps, if the Lords of the North so choose her as their queen. You should go and speak to Tormund, let him know you will be joining the Wildlings.”

“Aye, thank you, my lord,” Jon turned from the alcove and began to walk away from his Lord Commander.

“Jon,” Howland called, the sudden exclaim made Jon stop in his tracks, and he turned back to face Lord Reed. “I know what you have done what you have sacrificed, son," Reed said. "So do Sansa and Arya, and Bran. And more beyond them. Without you, the White Walkers would have swept through Westeros. And without you, it would have been Daenerys Targaryen who did it instead. You did the right thing.”

Jon shook his head slowly. “If that’s true, then why do I feel so hollow? Why does nothing feel normal, or… right?”

“Nothing is normal in our world, Jon. You know this. Making a sacrifice as you have to protect the realm, to protect your sisters, the people you love… will always pierce you with hollowness. Because deep down you believe that Daenerys might have been saved, you believe that if things were different, if you tried for just a little longer, that she might have seen what you did, and she might have been a good queen and stayed the women that you fell in love with. But you will never know if that could have truly been, and that haunts you.”

Jon stared at the icy floor of the Wall, unable to speak, unwilling. Howland walked up to Jon and put a hand on his shoulder, Jon looked up to the old man, with his thin grey hair, and light green eyes and he gave Jon a warm smile.

Howland gripped Jon’s shoulder firmly and continued speaking. “Doing something that others, like me, consider to be ‘right,' yet you cannot fathom as ‘right,’ is often met with regret, and thoughts of ‘what if?’ That is just human nature. With the burdens you have, nothing will ever feel truly right to you, but in ten years, when the summer sun glows on us again, you may reconsider, the ‘what if.'”

“So, all I can do is live with it, and move on…” Jon stated.

“Aye, it is simple, and it isn’t heartwarming. But that’s all any of us can do. Though, there is one thing you should always remember, that _will_ warm your heart… Sansa, Arya and Bran all love you, and they know what you've done for them, for the realm. And Ned and Catelyn Stark would be proud of you. Take that with you, on your ride north.”

* * *

The weirwood tree beyond the Wall, that Jon had sworn to once, many years ago. Still stood, awaiting his new oath. And on that night, he swore again, to the Night’s Watch, “ _I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”_ Jon hoped that should death break his oath again, he would not return to this world and instead remain in the nothingness. " _Nothing is nothing…"_ On the dawn of the new day, as a member of the Night’s Watch and First Ranger, Jon led the men, women and children of the Freefolk through the Wall and into the vast lands of icy forests, white snow and freezing winds. Though as he rode on his destrier, with Ghost padding along on one side, and Tormund mounted on the other, Jon spotted a glimmer of spring, shooting through the melting snow and the swarm of memories of days gone, flooded through him… 

_"It's not easy to see something that has never been before…"_

_"Sansa killed Varys as much as I did.”_

_“A good world…”_

_“This is victory for her."_

_"How do you know? How do you know what's good?”_

_“Love is the death of duty.”_

_“Because I know what is good… and so do you… You do, you’ve always known.”_

_“Sometimes, duty is the death of love.”_

_“What about everyone else? All the other people who think they know what’s good?”_

_“Sansa and Arya wanted you freed…”_

_“They don’t get to choose.”_

_“She knows you are Jon, who you really are…"_

_"All right then. Let it be fear."_

_“...You’ll always be a threat to her.”_

_“I wish there was another way.”_

_“What’s west of Westeros?”_

_“Can you forgive me?”_

_“That’s where I’m going…"_

_"The North is free because of you."_

_“I’m going to miss you.”_

_“Sansa can have her sewing needles...”_

_“You’ve got your Needle?”_

_“I’ve got a Needle of my own…”_

_“Right here…”_

_“But they lost their King…”_

_“I’m not a Stark…”_

_"Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them…"_

_“I don’t care if he’s a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood flows through his veins!”_

_“You are to me."_

_"She's the best they could ask for…"_

_“He’s my king, from this day, until his last day!”_

_"I will follow Jon Snow, he said. The King in the North."_

_“He is the White Wolf!”_

_“Do you have any faith in me at all?”_

_“You're just as much Ned Stark’s child as any of us.”_

_“You know I do.”_

_“You were right where you needed to be.”_

_“What is honour, compared to a woman’s love? "_

_“The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother, hmm?”_

_"And what is duty, compared to a newborn son in your arms?”_

_"You're Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name…"_

_“You're my brother, not my half-brother or my bastard brother… my brother.”_


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From King's Landing to Winterfell. From a Lady to a Queen. Farewells are said, the future is set and truths are unveiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very big chapter for one of my favourite characters. I hope its endearing enough to read the whole thing. I really pleased with it.

The dawn rose over Blackwater Bay while she stood tall, in the godswood of the Red Keep, one of the few places that had remained untouched from the Dragon Queen's burning. With that dawning sun, came the scent of morning. A fresh smell of rising dew and opulent purity that arrived with the buzz of bird song and whispering trees. This fragrance had perforated across the city, one that had slowly replaced the foul odour of death and charred bodies that gripped the Capital for too long. Though this place was no longer the Capital for the North, that was now Winterfell. Sansa's home that had suffered as much as her family had, a haven she would return to come the noon, and she could not be more eager to leave King's Landing and relish once more in the white snows and grey walls of her home. She only wished Arya and Jon were with her, and even Bran. But Arya had her own wishes, and Jon had to face the consequences for what he did. Though if it were up to Sansa, she would have freed him in an instant, he saved the world from a tyrant, and he was her brother and King. But war was at risk again, and none could chance that, so it was Bran who decided Jon's fate and prevented war. Brandon Stark was now King of the Six Kingdoms, and Sansa smirked, finally understanding why he came all this way, perhaps her little brother could see the future. Whatever the case, the Six Kingdoms would be safe under his eye with all his knowledge and wisdom, though a robust Small Council would help, Sansa hoped that Tyrion had learned from his mistakes so that her little brother would be as safe as he could be, here in the putrid city.

With the morning came a raven from Castle Black, a letter tied to its legs, addressed to the King, and Sansa. Bran had already received the news and Sansa's captain of the guard, Aberdale, had retrieved the letter from the Tower of the Hand at her request. And so she stood, the stump of the weirwood tree beside her, the light of the dawn basking her face; she read the letter once more.

_King Bran, Lady Sansa._

_Jon Snow has sworn himself to the Night's Watch and has departed from Castle Black to escort the Wildlings to a new home, as you requested._

_Howland Reed, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch._

Sansa hoped that if she reread it, the words would change: _Jon Snow has arrived at Winterfell_... but they never did. She did not want Jon gone, but there was no avoiding it, so instead, she hoped he would enjoy his time with the Freefolk until he returned to the Wall... if he ever did. Sansa folded the parchment and passed it to Aberdale, who stood behind her. "Do we have any ravens left in our camp, Captain?" She asked him.

"Two I believe, m'lady."

"Have word written to Castle Black, for Lord Commander Reed. Tell him I wish to know, _immediately_ , when Jon returns. And emphasis to him the importance that I learn of it before anyone else."

"Think he'll return? Can't blame him if he don't."

Sansa glared over her shoulder to her captain. "Get to it, Aberdale."

"At once, m'lady." Aberdale spun and made his way up the steps leading to the keep, passing by Tyrion and Brienne who made a slow descent toward the weirwood stump, Tyrion was eagerly chatting all the while. Finally, the pair came to Sansa's level, and she spun about to face them.

"Lady Sansa, I was just telling Brienne that the White Sword Tower has survived the destruction. Well, mostly anyway," said Tyrion with a smile.

"That's good to hear," Sansa lied. She could not care less if the Red Keep had fallen to the ground.

"I would like to see it, my lord," announced Brienne. "And the White Book, if I may?"

"Of course, Ser Brienne!"

Brienne smiled at the dwarf, then put her attention to Sansa. "Would that be all, my lady?"

"There is one more thing, Ser," said Sansa. She paced forward and offered kind eyes to Brienne. "Ser Podrick is by Bran's side, yes?"

"He is."

"Good. I have had talks with my brother. While there will be changes, traditions are still important. And while I have no interest in the customs or politics of the Six Kingdoms, I still want my little brother to be safe. So we believe that the re-establishment of the Kingsguard is important and that Podrick is well suited to that role, do you agree?"

Brienne smiled wide. "I do, my lady."

"Pod should know that the Kingsguard will remain celibate," Tyrion interjected, then grinned. "The whores will go begging from Dorne to the Wall."

"The Kingsguard will retain seven knights, as it did before," Sansa cut in, ignoring Tyrion's jest. "Though Podrick will not command them. That role requires someone with more experience, someone with the skill and knowledge to lead. Someone honourable and trustworthy beyond anyone else. Someone perhaps that travelled all of Westeros, to keep an oath to a mother. And fulfilled that oath without any expectation of fame, or gold or glory."

Ser Brienne stood silent for a moment, eyes wide. Sansa waited patiently for the knight to process what had been said. "My lady," Brienne finally spoke. "You want me as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?"

"No. I would rather you stayed by my side. But Bran needs you, and we could not find anyone else better suited to protect him and find others, like you and Podrick, who are worthy of filling the Kingsguard's ranks. Ser Brienne, from this moment, I remove you from the oath you swore to my mother, and I remove you from the oath you swore to me. You are a free knight. This freedom will remain should you decline the position of Lord Commander, the choice is yours."

Another beat of silence. Though the conviction that came to Brienne's face revealed that she had already made her decision. "I've never been one for a 'free knight.' Always wanted to serve a lord or lady that was good and worthy. I received that when I swore to Lady Catelyn, and I got it again with serving you, Lady Sansa. I've never been more proud than I was by your side, and I would gladly swear the Kingsguard's oath and serve King Bran."

Brienne went to kneel, but Sansa stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Save that for your king." Sansa felt her eyes burden, heavy with sadness. "Brienne, there has never been a more honourable and just knight." The smile that came about Brienne's face spoke more than any words could, and it was joined by a swell of pride that filled Sansa's heart. Though that quickly departed when Brienne left, ascending up the stairs from the godswood. Sansa realised the Knight of Tarth was yet another person leaving her life. She felt lonelier with each pass of the sun's clock. She quickly turned back to face Blackwater Bay, willfully hiding her sadness from Tyrion. Though unsuccessfully.

"I know it is difficult to lose her," Tyrion began. "But Ser Brienne is a great boon to Bran, and she can do more good in King's Landing than she could in the North. Besides, with the respect I've seen the Northern Lords give you, you won't need her protection." Sansa remained silent, and Tyrion took that to step beside her, joining her in a gaze out to the eastern sea. Then he reached inside his tunic and pulled at a worn and heavily folded piece of thick parchment. "The schematics you asked for, my lady."

Sansa grabbed the parchment quickly and stuffed it beneath her breastplate. "Thank you."

"They weren't very useful, in the end."

"I will need every advantage should it return."

"You think he will?"

"You can never be too safe," Sansa replied seriously.

"Mhmm," Tyrion agreed. "Speaking of safe… You told me once that you came to the godswood because it was a place where people wouldn't talk to you."

Sansa pouted but did not look to Tyrion. "That was a long time ago."

"True. And a lot has happened since. Much has changed. Looking out to the calmness of the Blackwater, you could almost forget it all."

"Almost."

Sansa heard the dirt shift, as Tyrion turned on her. "This is the first time we've talked in private since Winterfell," he said. "A lot has changed, even since then. Such as a city burning. Or that I didn't have a bone to pick with you when we were in Winterfell."

 _There it is_ , Sansa mused. "I know, Tyrion."

"You used me, Sansa."

"I gave you information. What you chose to do with it was up to you."

"You knew I would tell Varys. You knew he had doubts about Daenerys!"

"You had doubts too, and whose fault was that?" Sansa spun on Tyrion, she was not about to be blamed for another's actions. "It is not my fault for who you chose to speak to. Nor is it my fault that Daenerys' advisers were losing faith in her and that she had little trust in them. Something she admitted to me. I simply took advantage of these facts."

"Spoken like a true player of the game," Tyrion scoffed, though there did seem the smallest semblance of pride in his tone. "You sure you want to go back north? You would do great here."

"No, thank you. I have responsibilities. And work to do."

"Yes, as do we all," a heavy sigh came from the dwarf. "Daenerys said it best, you trusted me to spread the word of Jon's true heritage."

"And my trust was well placed."

"I guess that was a compliment. Sansa… why didn't you trust her?"

"You asked me this after what she did?"

"You couldn't have known Daenerys would do this. What was it about her that made you not trust her from the outset?"

It was Sansa's turn to give a heavy sigh. “What would you do if your people had fought and suffered for years for their homes and their independence, and then someone came to take that away, under the guise of a saviour? A saviour whose family had tormented your own and much of your country. A saviour who came to your lands with armies of killers, rapists and dragons."

"I would be grateful those armies fought to defend my home. I would be thankful Daenerys turned North to help me defeat the White Walkers."

"Mhmm," Sansa groaned. "And we were grateful. And I was thankful to Daenerys. Until I learned that the only reason she came North was because of the love she had for Jon. Given time, that love that would have turned to disaster with her knowledge of Jon's truth."

A confused look marked Tyrion's scarred face. "You don't know that for sure, Sansa. Love has… power."

Sansa glared. "The power to destroy, from what I’ve seen. Knowledge is power, Tyrion. With the knowledge of Jon's truth, he would always be a threat in Daenerys' eyes. I know what hunger for power looks like. I saw it in Cersei. I saw it in Littlefinger, in Ramsay. Tywin. Joffrey. I saw it in Daenerys too. What she cared most about was power and that ugly throne, and Jon stood between that. People would have followed him regardless if he wanted it or not, then what would Daenerys do? Hmm? What if she had become queen, Tyrion? How long until she would turn on Jon? On you? How long until the paranoia and madness her father had set in with her? Then what would happen if someone disrespected her? Didn't kneel? What if some other Lord of Westeros pushed her just a bit too much? How many other people would burn?"

Heavy eyes fell on Tyrion, as he looked back at the ground. "Well, we'll never know."

"Good. Love killed Robb, trust killed my father. Love and trust would have destroyed Jon, and more. I could not let that happen. Daenerys stopped at nothing to get the Iron Throne, and she would have burned the whole country to keep it."

Tyrion turned back to face the Blackwater. "I wanted to know what was going through your mind back in Winterfell. I got my answer. And I agree, more or less. Though, I didn't always see that. Daenerys was the greatest threat to the realm and I thought she would be a good queen. I didn't see what you did, not until it was too late."

"It wasn't too late. You convinced Jon."

"It could have been different."

" _Could_ have. It wasn't. What happened, happened." Sansa watched, as Tyrion stared toward the sea. "But... despite saying that, it would be easier to move on if something in the past was forgiven..."

Tyrion eyed her. "You want me to forgive you, for using me? Afraid I will pull a Jon?"

Sansa shuddered, though Jon hugged her fiercely before he left and she knew the love they had for each other still existed. He did not forgive her for what she had done. And that hurt her still. She swallowed and looked to Tyrion. "No... but I would like to be able to call you a friend."

He smiled. "And I, you. Fear not, I have no ill will, Sansa. In fact, I have even more respect for you, given the way you played the _great game_. I forgive you."

Sansa smiled and she stood in silence beside her former husband staring out in the Blackwater. Watching its dark waves rock vessels coming into port. Trader ships from the Free Cities. A cog from the Stormlands carrying timber. A fishing vessel from the Vale. The sight once again drew Sansa's mind to Arya. Images came to her of her little sister operating the helm of her grey sailed direwolf ship, grinning from ear to ear as she basked in the winds of the vast sea. However, the thought of Arya cruising further and further away brought fear to Sansa. "Will Arya be arriving at the Targaryen Islands soon?" she asked with a solemn tone.

"If the seas were kind, yes," answered Tyrion. "Ser Davos has said as much. And he's given no reason to believe the seas weren't kind."

"That's good… What do we know of the west?"

"Precious little, Sansa."

"I worry for Arya. They say Elissa Farman never returned from her voyage west…”

"Many worry about her. But Arya is a great woman, and she is not Elissa Farman. You know the skills your sister has, if anyone were to return, it would be her," Tyrion must have seen the uncertainty in Sansa's face, as he grabbed her hand gently and the pair faced each other again. "Sansa, it does no good to grieve for her departure, and whatever fate may come. Remember her for what she did and who she is. Live for her memory, should she return or not… the same goes for Jon."

Sansa nodded slowly. "I'll try…”

* * *

Noon arrived, and the sun was high, piercing through thin white clouds. Sansa had marshalled her remaining Northmen at the Gate of the Gods, ready for the journey on the Kingsroad. Though this gate was fit for no gods, for it was utterly destroyed by the Dragon Queen. Its rubble had mostly cleared; however, no progress on its rebuilding had begun, all that remained was a considerable gap in the already crumbled walls of King's Landing. Sansa stood beside Georg, Winterfell's Master of Horse as he fit and tightened the saddle on a beautiful white mare that was to be Sansa's. This palfrey was Arya's, the horse that took her from the burning city and that had served her well until she left. Arya bequeathed the horse to Sansa, leaving the mare in a place she knew Northmen would find it. In their small camp just outside the city. With the horse, was a note, which said:

_Sansa._

_I would say I'm sorry for leaving without a goodbye, but I'm not really, you know how bad I am with goodbyes, with people. The mare I have parted from, you know her. She is wild, beautiful and strong-willed, but I cannot take her across the sea. So she is yours now. I know she will have a much better life in Winterfell._

_I wish you good fortune, sister. Farewell._

_Arya._

The contents of the letter were not all true. As Sansa had figured Arya would try to sneak away. She knew Arya's ship had been finished and that her sister would leave as soon as possible. Sansa had planned for people to be at the docks, so Arya was forced to say her goodbyes, whether she liked it or not and Sansa knew that was best. Still, when a Northern soldier came to her with Arya's white mare, and the farewell letter in tow — a mere half a day after Arya had left — Sansa read it several times over and kept it close to her at all times. Even with Arya's curt words, it was a goodbye that Sansa could read again and again, and again. _I wish you good fortune, sister. Farewell._

"All done, m'lady," Georg said, just after tightening a final strap.

"Thank you, Georg," Sansa replied.

"She's a fine mare. Did Lady Arya give her a name?"

"No, she didn't."

"Ahh, well, we should give her a name that suits her beautiful white coat." Georg patted the mare's long mane. "What about, _Whitefang_? Or _Ghost_ , like Lord Jon’s direwolf."

"Those are all very nice names. Though I don't know if they suit her."

"Her coat is like snow," blurted a little voice. Sansa and Georg spun to face Estyr, standing behind them.

"What's a little Dornish girl know what snow looks like?" Georg asked.

Estyr rolled her eyes. "It's snowed a few times in King's Landing during winter."

"Pah! Ain't nothing like Northern snows."

"Georg is right," Sansa added with a smirk.

"I know what snow looks like," Estyr said contemptuously. "You should call Arya's horse _Snowy_ , or _Winter_ , or something like that because her coat is like snow. Don't name her _Whitefang_ , That's stupid."

"That ain't stupid! That's a strong name!" Georg roared.

"It doesn't even make sense!" Estyr shot back. "It's a horse, they don't have fangs."

"She's right, Georg," Sansa smirked again, this time at the Master of Horse.

He huffed and dropped his shoulders. "Well, it ain't no matter to me. It's your horse, Lady Sansa. But this one," Georg pointed a sharp finger at Estyr. "She oughta learn some respect. She ain't no lady."

" _Respect_?" Estyr blurted incredulously. 

"Quiet," Sansa cut in. "Go and make sure you have everything you need."

"I do—"

"Do it again."

"Yes, _Lady Sansa_ ," Estyr gave them both an exaggerated bow, then stuck her tongue out at Georg, before running off towards her horse that had a glistening chestnut coat and an attitude to match Estyr's. Sansa joined Georg in running her hand down the white mare's long neck, while she thought on Estyr's words. Sansa did like _Winter_ for a name, though she believed Arya's mare was far too beautiful for such a singular name, there needed to be something to match the wild beauty of this horse.

"Lady Sansa, what's the reason we bringing a southern common girl north?" asked Georg suddenly.

"Reasons you need not concern yourself with, Georg," Sansa answered.

"Aye, true. Forgive me, my lady."

"The fuck you giving her this for?" came a harsh voice. Sansa followed its sound and discerned that it originated from a tall man with a wispy beard, wearing expensive clothes with a cape that flowed behind him. Sansa believed the cape did not accommodate him, at all. Walking with him, was Tyrion, Ser Davos, Ser Brienne and Bran being pushed along King's Landing's main road by Ser Podrick.

"I'd make much better use out of this," the tall man finished, Sansa figured he was talking about the elegant looking sword and scabbard he held in his hands. As they all came closer, Sansa began to recognise the tall man holding the sword. 

"You've received enough," Tyrion replied to the tall man, as he and the others stopped just in front of Sansa. "Lady Sansa, you may not remember him, but this is—"

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Sansa stated.

"Lord Blackwater now," Bronn said. "Actually, Lord—"

"Paramount?" again, Sansa interrupted. "Lord of Highgarden and Lord Paramount of the Reach?"

"Oh, you told you?" Tyrion asked.

"Certain people. Back in Winterfell."

Tyrion gaped. "Winterfell? Did you..."

"Do you think I learned so little in my time in this awful city? People of note do not come into my kingdom without me knowing about it."

"You heard about my little meeting with the Lannister golden girls?" Bronn asked.

"I was told about it, as it was happening."

Bronn looked to Tyrion with a humorous expression. "What is with these Stark girls, eh?" He peered back at Sansa, wearing an ugly smirk. "Well, it seems you don't know all, m'lady. I'm Master of Coin too."

Sansa glared between Tyrion and Bran who sat beside him. "You made a sellsword your Master of Coin?" Neither of them responded.

" _Former_ sellsword," Bronn quipped. "I might not be able to count, but I know what's valuable."

Sansa scoffed. "Whores and swords?"

"And good wine. Speaking of which, who pissed in yours?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry if I was rude to you Lord Bronn," Sansa said, giving a false appearance of bereavement. "You know how it is at this time in a woman's life, the menopause kicking in, the hot flushes, the mood swings…"

Bronn repelled back and his face scrunched with disgust. "I didn't need to hear that, princess."

“So easy to squirm,” Sansa gestured languidly. "Lord Bronn, if you cannot spot basic sarcasm, I truly fear for the Reach."

"Thank a wet fart you got all the basics down, m'lady. You got any other words of wisdom?"

"Certainly. There are many basic concepts and idioms a lord should consider." Sansa shaped thin lips, glared at Bronn and made her tone serious. "Don't play with fire, for example."

Bronn grinned and breathed a short chuckle, he glanced down at Tyrion and Tyrion breathed a dismayed sigh.

"Enough please," Tyrion said, tirelessly. "For all of Bronn's many faults, he is honest, and he is willing to learn. This is not what we came for anyway." He stole the sheathed sword out of Bronn's hands. "Lady Sansa, I have a gift for you. This was taken from the Unsullied before they left." Tyrion held the blade in clear view and drew it halfway out of its scabbard. Its hilt was of gold filigree, its crossguard in the shape of a stag's antlers with a large ruby embedded into it. And its blade was dark steel, with the familiar ripple that all Valyrian steel swords have. It was Widow's Wail.

"Tyrion... This was your brothers." Sansa said quietly.

"Made from your family sword, Ice," Tyrion responded. "Brienne has Oathkeeper, you should take Widow's Wail. Though, I wouldn't begrudge you if you decide to rename it…”

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Hang it up in your hall." Bronn offered. "Wear it on ya waist. Fuck, I'll take it if neither of you wants it."

She ignored him but took the Valyrian sword in her hands. Despite hearing that Valyrian steel was lightweight, this sword felt heavy, heavier than Needle. Widow's Wail had a history, once the sword of Joffrey Baratheon which he used to torment Sansa with threats against her family. Only, despite Joffrey's words, the sword never harmed any of the Starks. It instead did the opposite, it defended them, and their home. Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper. Two swords from one. Defended their home in the hands of honourable, southern knights. She enjoyed all the irony. And now would Sansa take it to keep defending the North, while Oathkeeper defended the south? Though still slightly reluctant, she believed this sword could come in handy in the future.

"Jon and Arya have Valyrian swords, why not you," Tyrion stated, breaking Sansa's thought process.

"I'm not a warrior," she replied.

"Neither was Joffrey. Yet you have fare more courage than he ever did. Take the sword, Sansa."

She closed the blade into its scabbard and called to Georg. "Strap this to my saddle," she said when Georg arrived. He took Widow's Wail from her and returned to her saddle. Sansa turned back. "Thank you, Tyrion."

"You're welcome. Sansa I—"

"Lady Sansa," from behind them, Lord Cerwyn approached. "Forgive my interruption. The Vale and the Riverlanders have begun their journey, and all my men are all set and ready to leave. They are eager to return home."

"As am I, let's go," she replied, then faced Bran to say her farewells, but when she looked him over, she noticed his apparel. A dark blue tunic, elegantly made with fine needlework, which Sansa admired. But all over the tunic was exquisite embroidery of ravens. Not wolves. "Ravens?” she asked Bran.

"I am the Three-Eyed Raven," Bran replied.

"You are _King_ Brandon Stark," object Sansa.

"King Bran the Broken," Tyrion corrected. 

"Rolls of the tongue a bit better than 'King Three-Eyed Raven,' eh?" Bronn cracked. Though nobody replied to it.

Sansa was not all happy to see the wolf sigil replaced by a raven, and that Bran still no longer considered himself 'Bran'. She had lost her little brother to the south. But in truth, she lost him a long, long time ago. _"And what did it cost, little dove?"_

Sansa smiled weakly. "Goodbye, Your Grace." 

"This is not farewell forever. We will see each other again," Bran returned with half a smile.

"Under favourable circumstances, I hope."

"That is yet to be seen."

Sansa narrowed her blue eyes. "Is there something I need to know?"

"You know what the future holds, as much as I do."

"I doubt that little brother," Sansa bent over and hugged Bran and as their faces came near, she whispered. "Estyr is the daughter of the Prince of Dorne, and you had Arya find her, train her, and pass her to me to keep her far away from would-be killers. Am I right? I harbour this princess for Arya's sake, but The North is independent I will not involve it in southern schemes."

They parted from the embrace but kept their faces close, and Bran spoke quietly. "There is far more to this than you realise."

"Then tell me, Bran."

"When I know the time is right, I will. The North is independent, but for there to be peace in your kingdom, and mine, you and the North must play a part."

"I will not let my countrymen suffer under any more southern games."

Bran smiled thinly. "They won't be southern games. They will be your games."

As it were, Bran’s words offered little comfort, though Sansa relished that he was safe. And should there be more games, she would be at the forefront, not a pawn. Farewells were said and shared. However, they did not feel as permanent as they did when Sansa said goodbye to Arya. Podrick and Brienne gave their respect for their time serving Sansa. Davos offered his admiration and Bronn offered no goodbye, simply a witless smirk. All the while, Sansa noticed as Lord Cerwyn looked on impatiently. In the end, he left to wait with the mass of Northmen just outside the ruined gates. Estyr, Aberdale, along with a handful of guardsmen patiently sat on their mounts just near Sansa. She would sate their patience, for she mounted Arya's white mare, eager to expedite from this ruined town. Sansa grabbed the reigns and made to kick her heels and begin the long ride North until she was stopped by a voice.

"Sansa," said Tyrion. He waddled towards her, alone and with a concerned look on his face.

"Yes?" Sansa replied.

"I need to ask you about Jon."

"Right now, when I'm just about to leave? Couldn't have asked me earlier? Such as any time for the last several weeks that I've been staying here?"

"I was hoping my king would bring this up, but he didn't."

Sansa breathed hard. "It is noon, and the sun is waning. I wish to leave before it sets."

Tyrion stepped closer, glanced toward Sansa’s guard and Estyr, then back at Sansa. "When all is said and done. What are your plans with Jon?"

"What are you asking?" Sansa demanded with a thick frown.

"I am asking if you intend to pardon Jon and relinquish his oath to the Night's Watch."

"What the North does, is the North's business, Lord Hand."

"Sansa, you made a deal. If you break that and the Unsullied find out—"

"I know what would happen. Besides, Jon has gone beyond the wall, and you know what he is like with his oaths and honour. Bloody stubborn. He wouldn't accept my pardon."

"That may be true, but what if Jon has changed? He has been through a great deal. What if he never returns to the Wall and stays with the Wildlings? He was very happy in their company back in Winterfell. I could see him breaking his oath, and why not? He's given everything to the Realm, to its people, and look what he got in return."

"We requested that he guide the Freefolk because we knew he would enjoy it. He has earned more than that. But if he has changed… if he breaks his oath… well, what of it? I can't control him, nor will I. If he doesn't return… that's his choice."

"And you will have to make a choice too."

"What choice?"

"If Jon abandons the Wall and the Night's Watch," Tyrion answered lightly. "You must condemn him and label him a traitor."

"Excuse me!?" Sansa spat the words.

Tyrion edged ever closer and lowered his voice. "I know what you are thinking, the Wildlings helped us against the dead and helped you and Jon before then. That was an alliance out of need. They are not our enemies now, but as long as they do not kneel or do not accept the laws of our lands, they are not our allies. From what I know, the lands beyond the wall aren't exactly fertile, so years from now they may come south, seeking aid. And if that isn't enough, or if you can't provide what they request, they may come to raid the North just as they did in the past and with a giant hole in the Wall, it would be much easier. Should they do that, you will need to fight them. And if Jon chooses to break his oath to stay with the Wildlings, an example must be set."

"Need I remind you that the North is not apart of the Six Kingdoms. Neither is the Wall."

"I know, Sansa"

"Yet you speak as if they were."

Tyrion groaned and threw a frustrated look. "The North is independent, yes, but the Night's Watch is impartial. The North and the Six Kingdoms will no doubt be sending criminals and broken men to the Wall in the years to come, and we cannot allow people to think that they can just abandon the Night's Watch and their oaths without consequence."

Sansa scoffed and shook her head angrily. "So you want me to condemn my own brother as a traitor, after everything he has done?"

"If it comes to that… yes…" said Tyrion.

"How dare you. Jon considered you a friend."

"And I consider him a friend. I hope to see him on the Wall, all in black as I did all those years ago. But we must all consider the repercussions of our decisions. Sansa, please! I am saying all this for your sake and for your kingdom. You are smart, I know you've thought of all this yourself. Jon will understand the consequences of his choice, he will not resent you, should you condemn him."

Sansa broke eye contact with Tyrion and gazed north, her eyes heavy with despair. Tyrion was right, of course. But she doubted Jon would not hold resentment toward her. Though she did it for his sake, Sansa had broken a promise Jon held dear, and she cultivated a situation which led to Jon's current predicament and the death of a woman he loved. Were Sansa to condemn him as a traitor to the North, that would likely destroy any chance of fixing her and Jon's relationship. And what of the Northern Lords? What would they think? Or Arya, if she returned. What would she think if she found out what had happened? Sansa dreaded the notion of what Arya would think, would say. Would do.

 _Please come back to the Wall, Jon._ Sansa thought. She blinked slowly, regret clouding her. She looked down at the last Lannister in remorseful sorrow "Jon is my king, Tyrion. Not a traitor."

" _Was,_ your king."

She nodded, though it hurt. After a deep breath, Sansa straightened herself in the saddle. "Thank you for the words, and advice. Good fortune and farewell, my friend." 

Tyrion smiled lightly and gave a short bow. "Farewell, Sansa," 

Sansa dug her heels into the mare and she shot forward. Strapped to her saddle, Widow's Wail rattled in its scabbard with each trot as Sansa joined the Northmen, and King's Landing became a distant memory once again.

* * *

The ride back home along the well-tracked Kingsroad was long, but not lonesome. She rode with the remaining Northmen. The Vale and Riverlanders travelled together only a short distance ahead, never too far out of sight. Mounted on the white palfrey once belonging to Arya, Sansa trotted genially at the head of the Northern cavalcade, Aberdale on one side, Lord Cerwyn on the other. An array of guardsmen behind her, and further behind them Northmen. Healers, cooks, smiths, soldiers. Riding, walking or mounted in wagons. And just a few yards ahead of Sansa and the rest, rode Estyr. More struggling than riding, however. She bleated to her horse as it stepped against her will or altogether ignored her commands. Sansa looked on, as Estyr's horse came to a complete stop and when the Dornish girl kicked her heels in to prod her horse forward, he neighed angrily and nearly bucked Estyr off. At that sight, Sansa jolted her mare forward and galloped up to Estyr.

"You told me that you knew how to ride a horse," Sansa said to her.

"I do," Estyr replied defiantly. "It's not my fault they gave me a bad horse," She kicked her heels in once more. "Come on, Viper! Ya!"

"You chastised Georg for the name Whitefang, yet you call your horse Viper?"

"Yeah... Well, he's got the same eyes as the Red Viper did."

"How do you know what Oberyn Martell's eyes looked like?"

"Stories," Estyr kicked harder. "Ya! Go! Move you dumb, stupid horse!"

"Arya Stark would give you a hiding if she saw how you treating that horse," said Aberdale as he and the rest rode closer. Sansa watched as Estyr looked sheepishly away from Aberdale and did not speak to him. She was like this all the time, and not just with the captain of Sansa's guard, but with all the Northern soldiers. Either staring apprehensively or ignoring them altogether, when they tried to speak to her, she wouldn't answer.

Estyr continued to try and edge her horse on, unsuccessfully, so Sansa rose a hand to signal the procession to a halt and called out. "Georg!" The Master of Horse pushed through the crowd and positioned himself between Sansa and Estyr.

"She broke the lil' horse, m'lady?" he asked.

"Near about," Sansa said. "Help her, Georg."

Georg turned and began patting the young horse who whinnied anxiously. "He knows you're afraid of him."

"I'm not afraid of him, he won't do as he's told!" Estyr shot back.

"'Cause he don't like ya, he don't know ya. All's he knows is that you're afraid, and ya mean, and now he's fed up!"

"I'm fed up!"

"Get off him, young one. It's time you got to know your horse better."

Sansa watched smiling as Georg 'reintroduced' Estyr to her young horse. Calm words, gentle pats and some feeding with bits of apples. Eventually, Estyr mounted, but this time, she was guided by Georg, showing how to properly direct a horse and emphasising how all horses, can smell fear, amongst many other talents. The Northern cavalcade resumed their march and slowly followed the pair, as they did Lord Cerwyn rode close to Sansa.

"So who's the southern girl?" he asked.

"My sister had a soft spot for her," Sansa said. "Estyr lost a lot in King's Landing. Arya trained her, and wanted me to take her in."

Cerwyn thought for a moment, then finally spoke. "Seems to me a lot of people lost a lot in King's Landing."

"Yes, and our soldiers helped with that when they sacked the city against Jon's command."

"It's war, my lady," Cerwyn said, taken aback.

"I love it when people say that. As if it's a valid excuse," said Sansa derisively.

"Forgive men, my lady. All I'm saying is I don't know why that _Estyr_ is so special."

"She is _special_ , Lord Cerwyn, because Arya thought she was. Are you questioning my sister's decisions?"

Cerwyn laughed. "Not at all, Lady Sansa. But I get your point, I'll stop asking."

Lord Cley Cerwyn was not the most intelligent man Sansa had ever met, but he was far from a fool. Though he had refused the call to fight for the Starks against Ramsay Bolton, he quickly became fond of Jon as his king and eventually became a strong supporter of him and in turn, Sansa. And she liked Cerwyn. He was a head shorter than her, though muscular and pleasant to look at, with light brown hair and brown eyes encapsulated amidst a youthful face that often held a smile. But it wasn't his looks that Sansa liked, it was his capacity for change. Cerwyn was young and competent, and unlike most of the other Northern Lords, he was not afraid of innovation. Sansa knew, having someone like that in her court would always make life easier, especially considering how close Castle Cerwyn was to Winterfell.

"Cley, how is your sister?" Sansa asked him.

"Jonelle is a pain in my arse," He replied jauntily. "Otherwise, she's fine. At least she was when we left Cerwyn."

"I do hope to meet her."

"You might regret that."

Days of travel went by and on one night, the sky a vibrant light of stars, the Northerners had caught up with the Vale and Riverland forces and found themselves all camped outside of the Inn at the Crossroads. The inn was a buzz, Northmen, Valemen and Riverlands roamed inside and all around the inn's lands. Up the Kingsroad and down to where camps had been erected, a hundred or so men were lucky enough to spend the night in Lord Harroway's Town, much to the chagrin of many. In the early hours of the night, Sansa had joined the Valemen, speaking to the Knights of the Vale and their lords but spending most of her time talking to Lord Royce and Lord Robin. Robin Arryn was much meeker around Sansa since he suffered the thrashing from both her and Arya after the battle with the Dothraki. Royce was stalwart as always and happy to be returning to the Vale, after so long away from his home.

Edmure Tully had been one of the lucky ones who spent the night in Lord Harroway's Town, though Sansa suspected he elected himself for that privilege. Regardless she would not get to speak to him tonight, words would be said in the morning when the Vale and Riverlanders parted ways with the Northmen. As the conversations with Royce and Robin dwindled, Sansa elected to return to her Northmen. Though she walked alone amongst the camps, she never feared for herself and as she marched, Valemen, Riverlanders and Northmen alike parted for her if they were in her way, smiled as she passed, offered her a drink or some food, asked her of her night, spoke to her of tales or simply said hello. Eventually, she returned and found, outside the inn, Aberdale sitting amongst a mass of Northerners around a large fire. Though behind them and to Sansa's surprise, Estyr sat on a log next to Georg wiping a rag down the thin sword that Arya had gifted her. But a roar came when the group of Northmen spotted Sansa, they all raised their cups, cheered and begged her to join them. She found a spot next to Aberdale and participated in the revelry, taking a drink, though this was a cheap wine that apparently Aberdale had stolen from King's Landing. Sansa listened to her vassals and soldiers sing, tell stories of events long past or ones they all recently shared. They spoke of their families, their swords and their battles. Being amidst the common people and soldiers was something Sansa rarely did, she knew, and she did feel out of place. Yet at the same time, listening to these men who mostly came from small communities such as Wintertown or much smaller unnamed villages around the North — men who rarely washed and had little to their name, whose lot in life was just to survive. Sansa began to understand why Arya enjoyed being amongst the common people — there were no games here, no intrigue, no knives in backs or spies or poisoned wine. Just truths. They told you what you did wrong, they admitted their dislikes, and underneath all the dirt, there was a charm. Sansa continued to listen to their stories, and as the cheap wine slowly diminished in her cup, her stomach growled. Sansa turned her head to see Estyr, still sitting beside Georg, still religiously wiping the rag down the blade of her sword.

Sansa faced the group of Northmen. "You must forgive me, but I shall take my leave."

Aberdale burped. "Oh, shit… 'scuse me, m'lady. Would ya like an escort?"

"I'll be fine, Captain," Sansa left the cup of wine and rose to her feet.

"Nay, I shall join ya, Lady Sansha! I'm ya captain!" Aberdale drawled and attempted to get to his feet, but slipped and fell hard on the ground. The Northmen around the fire burst into laughter, and Sansa herself tried to hold back a giggle.

"Greatbeard here can't hold this southern piss!" shouted a Northern soldier.

"Oh fuck off, Rud!" roared Aberdale, then looked up to Sansa with guilt. "Forgive me words, m'lady."

"I've seen southern street whores that can hold more wine than you, Aberdale," Sansa spat with a grin. Aberdale looked on, both shocked and exulted and the Northerners roared with laughter again.

"Oi Lady Sansa's right, I've seen em," said a Northmen. 

"You ain't seen shit, Gil," replied another.

"All 'scept 'is mother's fat arse," Aberdale threw in, and more laughter echoed amongst the men. But once again, Aberdale looked up sheepishly to Sansa. "Ahh! We shouldn't be speaking like this in front of our lady..."

"It's fine, Aberdale. Stay and enjoy the night. But don't drink too much," Sansa said with a smirk.

“Think he already failed that, m’lady,” the Northmen named Gil said.

Aberdale grinned. "Yet I shall try... and FAIL! Hah!"

Sansa chuckled and made her way from the fire, toward the Estyr and Georg. The sound of the Northmen's laughter trailed behind her. As she approached the pair, Georg looked up from the saddle he was mending by the light of a candle.

"A fine night, m'lady," he said.

"It is," responded Sansa. "You two the best of friends now, hmm?" she noticed Estyr smile shyly.

"Ahh, she's ain't so bad once you talk to her for a bit," offered Georg. "Reminds me of my son."

"I remind you of a boy," Estyr said disgustedly. "Eww!" Georg chortled in response.

"You have a son?" Sansa asked.

"No, m'lady... _Had_. He died just after winter started. Became sick, nothin' we did cured him."

"What was his name?" Estyr asked, sadly.

"Rodrick, like me father."

Sansa gave Georg a remorseful smile. "I'm sorry, Georg. Rodrick is a good name, a strong name. And your son won't be forgotten."

Goerg smiled at her, "Thank you, m'lady."

"Do you mind if I take Estyr off your hands?"

"Be my guest, Lady Sansa."

Estyr rose quickly and sheathed her sword on her hip. "Where we going?"

"To eat. Come."

The interior of the Inn at the Crossroads was crowded with men from the three processions. Speckled amongst them were others — traders, travellers and the like who rested at the inn during their journey through Westeros. As Sansa and Estyr walked, three Northmen immediately rose and gave up their table to the pair, Sansa thanked the men and her and Estyr sat opposite each other. As soon as they had become comfortable, they were come upon by an old woman smiling a toothy grin.

"Pleasure to see you again, Lady Sansa. Terrible tragedy what happened in the Capital," the old innkeeper said, she spoke quickly and moved surprising quick for a woman of her age.

"It was," Sansa replied. "How do things fair in the Riverlands?”

"Oh, the only interesting thing has been all the armies passing through of late. Nothing worth note has happened since the Frey's were wiped out. There's stories going abouts that your sister did that... Is that true, m'lady?”

"I would not talk of stories about Arya when she is not here to defend herself."

"Oh, fair, fair. Forgive me. What can I get you?"

"A slice of pigeon pie and a piece of lemon cake," said Sansa.

"Anything to wash it down?"

"Your best wine."

The old innkeeper gave a discouraged look. "Oh, I am sorry, m'lady, but we don't have any wine left, even the cheap stuff. What with all the men passing through, they drank it faster than we could bring it in. We've plenty of ale and mead, though!"

Sansa sighed. "Ale it is then."

"Very good, anything for the lil' lady?"

"Just get her water," Sansa answered. "Your baker, Hotpie, is he here?"

"Ermm, he is, m'lady," the innkeeper said subdued. "He's out back."

"I'd like to speak to him." 

"O'course, m'lady," after a short bow, the innkeeper left, and Estyr suddenly shot to attention. 

"What was that about Arya and the Freys?" she asked

"Just stories," Sansa said.

"Can you tell me them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because they are Arya's stories."

"What about your stories then? The Battle of the Bastards, the Boltons?"

"What about them?" Sansa asked with a glare.

"You led the Knights of the Vale to win the battle."

"It was the efforts of many people, not one."

"You fed a man to his hounds."

"I did."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because he was a bad man, Estyr," Sansa said seriously. _"'ll always be apart of you, Sansa._ Ramsay's words in her mind.

"What was it like watching hounds eat a man alive?" Estyr asked with a devilish smirk.

Sansa rose her head. "Satisfying."

"What'd you do with the hounds?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"That's what Arya said," Estyr responded full of cheer, but then dropped her shoulders sadly. "Why'd she have to go?"

"Because she wanted to. My sister went through a lot."

"So did a lot of people."

"Some more than others. And we all handle it differently."

"She should have stayed," Estyr spat.

Sansa noticed the derision in Estyr voice, and she studied the girls face as she played with a splinter sticking out from the wooden table. The Dornish girl was upset with Arya leaving, yet only showed it in rare moments like this. Sansa understood why, but she did not want these thoughts to fester into something worse. "Don't be mad at Arya," Sansa said.

Estyr fired up with a scowl. "Don't tell me what to think."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "There is the famous quick tongue of the Dornish."

"I'm… sorry," Esytr said, receding back into the bench. "I… Arya was… she was good to me… like my mother, and she trained me without asking anything of me. I wanted her to stay…”

"So did I," Sansa admitted. "But Arya makes her own choices, and she needed to leave, for her own good." Estyr nodded slowly, then Sansa spotted the old innkeeper bringing forth the food, water and ale. When the food was placed, Sansa took the pewter knife and fork and began cutting the slice of pigeon pie in half. She set one half on an empty plate and passed it to Estyr. The girl just stared at the food and opted to drink her water instead.

"Don't like pigeon pie?" asked Sansa.

Estyr shook her head. "Not hungry."

"Of course you are. Have some lemon cake then," Sansa cut a small piece of pie and gently ate. 

The Dornish girl shook her head again, "Yuck. Don't like lemon cake. Too sour."

"It's only sour if they are made wrong. The lemon cakes here are the best I've ever had."

"No. I'm not hungry."

Sansa dropped her utensils and glared at the girl. "I may not be able to read faces like Arya, but I can surely tell that was a lie."

"It wasn't a lie! I already ate."

"When?"

"When you went off speaking to those Vale lords." Estyr dropped her shoulders and sighed. "I… I stole some of the Northmen's bread and cheese…”

"Stole? Why in the Seven Hells… You are my ward, the Northmen would have given you food if you asked."

Estyr didn't respond. She just stared at the table dejectedly and began playing with splinter again. Sansa swallowed, and slide her plate of pigeon pie to the side. "What is it about the Northmen? I've seen the way you are around them. Tell me the truth now."

"I…” Estyr stopped then looked up slowly, her large brown eyes full of sadness. "When King's Landing was attacked… I saw the dragon burn people. I saw the Dothraki run them down, I saw the Unsullied kill my… my mother… and others. And I saw… Northmen in that armour they’re wearing now, attacking unarmed soldiers and chasing civilians trying to escape…”

"And you can't look at them, or talk to them without being reminded of that?" Sansa ventured.

Estyr nodded slowly. "How can you trust them to protect you? How can you lead bad men like that? How can you even talk to them?"

Sansa grabbed the girls hand and looked into her dark, Dornish eyes. "Punishing them, ignoring them… That won't change what happened or what they did. Men are beasts, some more than others. I do not trust them all and I know what they are capable of if they are pushed. But they do not reflect all the people of the North who I lead. There are not just good people and bad people, Estyr. Nothing is that simple. When those men who butchered a city close their eyes at night, they will remember the horrors they did, no amount of ale or whores will allow them escape."

Estyr blinked and shook her head. "You and Arya seem to be good. And from what I've heard, Jon Snow as well."

"We've all done plenty of bad things to get to where we are. But those are stories for another day," Sansa released her hand and slid over the plate with the small piece of lemon cake. "Here, have some. You won't regret it, trust me."

Estyr reluctantly cut a piece of the cake, and gently nibbled on it. But as she did, her face changed, her eyes went wide, and she smiled. "It's good!"

Sansa returned the smile. "Told you. How did you even manage to steal food from the Northmen without being caught?"

"Well, it wasn't my first time," Estyr stuffed another, bigger piece of the cake in her mouth. "When mother and I came to King's Landing, we didn't have much coin… so, sometimes I would sneak through the city and steal food from the vendors. I never got caught."

"Is that so…” Sansa said with contemplation. "You're quiet? Know how to lurk around? Where'd you learn this skill?"

"In Dorne... I'm probably not as quiet as Arya."

Sansa laughed. "No, I doubt that," then she spotted, out of the corner of her eye, the old innkeeper serving a table. Sansa called out to her. "Innkeep!" The old woman spotted her and anxiously walked over to Sansa and Estyr's table when she arrived, she placed the tankard she held down wiping her hands on her ragged apron. "The lad, Hotpie?" Sansa asked once more.

"I'm sorry, m'lady," said the inkeep. "But he's not here, he—"

"What is your name?" Sansa interrupted her.

"Masha, m'lady," she answered suspiciously.

"Do not mistake my youth, for naivety, Masha. Look around you." Masha looked nervously around her inn, paying close attention to the Stark soldiers. Sansa continued. "This inn is full of men loyal to me, and hundreds of more outside. Ask yourself, why do you lie to me?."

Masha swallowed hard. "I'll go and get Hotpie right now, m'lady," Sansa watched as Masha quickly hurried away through a door in the back, then immediately returned with a chubby young man, pulling on his worn shirt. As they approached, the man's round eyes looked anxiously at Sansa.

"You are Hotpie?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"My sister, Arya, spoke of you, you're quite the baker."

Hotpie's already large face seemed to go wider as he slowly put things together. "You... you're Sanza Stark?"

" _Sansa_ ," Estyr muttered, her mouth full of lemon cake.

Sansa smiled, "I am. And I've come too see if you would like to come to Winterfell, to be our castle's baker."

The portly man choked on his words unable to fathom what he was offered, instead, it was Masha who spoke "Er, m'lady, if I may. Hotpie is a good lad, but he ain't no fit for a castle.

"Hotpie can think for himself. What is your answer Hotpie?"

"M'lady I don't... I, I can't... Why me?"

"Any friend of my sister, is a friend of mine."

Suddenly Masha stepped forward with new courage. "I would like compensation if you took Hotpie."

" _Compensation_!?" Sansa blurted. "You want me to buy him from you? He is not a slave to be bought or sold."

"No, no, of course not, but many come to our inn just for Hotpie's cakes and pies and bread, we would lose much should he go."

Sansa looked at Hotpie, who smiled nervously. "They've been good to me, m'lady. " He said. "I'd love to come to Winterhell, but I… I wouldn't feel right to just up and go.”

"That won't do," Sansa sat up straight on the bench. "I will not buy him… but I offer this. Hotpie will come with us if he wishes, and while he stays in _Winterfell_ , I will have him apprentice a pair of young Northern boys for a few months. Once Hotpie is satisfied that they can bake as good as he, then I will send them to this inn, where they will work provided you give them food and shelter."

Masha's eyes lit up. "O'course m'lady, but… but can ya find young lads that will want to leave home and work in an inn?"

"Many were orphaned thanks to the Great War. They would be happy just to have a home and a purpose."

Yellow teeth flashed as Masha grinned. "We have an accord!"

The agreement was made and Hotpie left to gather his belongings for a journey north, but after he and Masha left the table, Sansa glanced at Estyr, who was staring at her intently as the moonlight sparkled of her olive skin. "What was that about?" asked Estyr. "You can get bakers anywhere."

Sansa smirked at her, "if I told you, that would spoil the game."

A damp morning came and with it, the aches of men who drank too much, Aberdale included. “Fuck tha’ cheap wine,” he had cursed as he saddled his horse. “Worst decision I ever made.” Farewells were made as Edmure and his army rode west towards Riverrun and the Lords of the Vale returned to the mountains, though Sansa had a feeling she would see them all soon enough. Sansa once again rode at the front of the procession, a force considerably dwindled with the departure of the Riverlanders and the Vale. She led the few hundred Northmen, while Aberdale rode on one side, Estyr on the other and Hotpie sat in a carriage behind them, nibbling on a piece of dry cake. Estyr rode confidently now, she no longer needed Georg to guide her young chestnut horse, though he still proved to be difficult to control. As the Dornish girl trotted besides, Sansa spotted her eyeing the white mare and Sansa in its saddle.

“You give her a name yet?” Estyr finally asked, her head pointing towards the mare Sansa rode.

“I did,” Sansa said pridefully. “Her name is Winterrose.”

Estyr postulated, then spoke. “Like the flower? It’s a pretty name, why choose that?”

Sansa smiled in thought. “Because she is strong of will. Wild and beautiful.”

* * *

Wintertown welcomed them with an array of peasants and commoners who smiled as Sansa and her progression marched through the main street of the small village. Some bowed, grinned, waved or hollered out. Others offered nonchalant greetings with a turn of their hand or a short nod of their head. Then came Winterfell. The main gate and walls had all been repaired, an array of Northern soldiers lined the main courtyard as Sansa and her guard rode in. In the yard, lined up together, were the Northern lords and ladies waiting patiently. Sansa dismounted Winterrose as Lord Cerwyn rode into the courtyard. She turned to face the lords and ladies, seeing Manderly, Tallhart, Magnar, Forrester, Ryswell, Slate, Ironsmith, Flint and yet more. Though, standing shorter than the rest, was Lady Meera Reed.

Sansa stepped toward them, and the booming voice of Lord Magnar, a man Sansa herself rose to Lord of the Dreadfort came roaring. "Welcome home, Lady Sansa! Glad to be out of that incestuous city I wager."

Sansa grinned "Thank you, my lord, I am. And I am grateful that you have all arrived."'

"Course my lady," said Rodrick Ryswell. The Lord of the Rills and a man Sansa did not trust. The Ryswells had sworn to the Boltons immediately after they took Winterfell. "We're grateful not to be kneeling to any dragons."

"Here, here!" Manderly called out.

She smiled at Lord Ryswell. "As am I. Though you will forgive me, my lords, my ladies, I must take a moment to settle, then we shall convene inside the Great Hall."

They all bowed and agreed and started to separate from the crowd as they did, Maester Wolkan carried his old legs in a wobbly gait toward Sansa. He smiled kindly. "Congratulations on securing independence, my lady."

"Thank you, maester. Any problems while I was gone?" Sansa inquired.

"Oh no, the Wildlings left shortly after you sent the raven. The peasants are thankful that the Starks rid the North of the invader and all the noble houses are here as you requested."

"All of them?" she asked, not at all convinced.

"Well... No... I have word from—"

"Not here, let's go inside."

Together they marched from the courtyard and up the stairs leading to the Great Hall. When they arrived inside, Sansa saw the hall littered with chairs all awaiting the Northmen and at the very back, upon the dais was the hearth with a fire roaring and before it was the great table with four chairs for the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell. Sansa strode up the Great Hall eyeing the table and chairs. She stepped up on the dais and walked around the table, running her hands across the chairs. Four chairs, one for Jon, one for Sansa, one for Arya and one for Bran. She felt her heart sink as she ran her hand across each chair, and she shuddered as she remembered her family. All she had left of them, was memory.

"I wasn't sure who would be returning," Maester Wolkan whimpered from behind Sansa. "Shall I take away the unneeded chairs from the great table?"

Sansa spun around to face him. "No, no. Leave them." She walked towards the large hearth and its warm fire. "You have word from Deepwood Motte?" she asked, staring into the blaze.

Wolkan ruffled through his dark robes and pulled out a parchment, it had a broken seal of the fist of House Glover. "This arrived a week ago, Lord Glover’s wife is, er... sick."

"Sick? With what, the pox?" Sansa took the parchment from Wolkan and began to read the lies.

_Lady Sansa_

_I am overjoyed to hear that you have given the North indepandance. I offer my thanks and my loyalty..._

"But," Sansa mumbled to herself as she read.

_But I cannot ride to Winterfell for the council, my wife has come ill, Sybelle is bedridden, and I must stay in Deepwood Motte for her. I know the North will choose a good ruler for our now indepandant kingdom._

_Robett Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte._

"He spelt _independent_ wrong," Sansa folded the parchment, then threw it carelessly into the hearth. She watched as the fire enveloped the treacherous words.

"Pardon, my lady?" Wolkan asked.

"Robett Glover's wife is not sick. He will not come to Winterfell because he knows he will find it difficult to leave."

"Because he broke his oath to the Starks?"

"Two oaths."

"What will you do?"

"I haven't decided yet. Besides, the North has a more pressing issue right now." She looked to Wolkan. "Have my handmaidens brought to my solar, I will wash and change. Then bring the lord and ladies in at noon for council."

"As you command," Wolkan bowed.

"One final thing," Sansa said, and she reached beneath her breastplate and took out the thick and heavily folded parchment Tyrion had given her. "Take this and make copies."

Wolkan took the parchment warily and unfolded it. His old eyes lit up, then narrowed as he studied to schematics. He eyed Sansa with wonder. "My lady, are these plans for the weapons that shot down the dragons?"

"They call them Scorpions. I wish to start constructing them as soon as possible. Keep the original schematic safe."

"Of course, of course," Maester Wolkan bowed again, and Sansa turned to leave the Great Hall but as she did Wolkan called out quickly. "Er, Lady Sansa."

"Yes?" she turned back, watching him once again tousle through his robes.

Wolkan relieved from his robes, another parchment. "This came a few days ago... er, given who it is from, I didn't read it."

"Good of you, maester," Sansa said as she took the parchment from his hand and she noticed on its front the unbroken wax seal, of a direwolf. She gazed at the seal for a long time. Then she lifted her eyes at Wolkan, who was smiling. "I will take this in my solar."

Winterfell's Lord’s Chambers remained undisturbed during Sansa's leave. The small Stark banners still hung on the grey walls. Her side table below the window housed silverware goblets and a pitcher full of Arbor Red wine. Her bedding layered with clean furs and linens and the miniature statues of direwolves and weirwood faces still sat upon the sill above the hearth. Sansa unclasped her wolf fur cloak and laid it out on her bedding, then moved to the hearth and kindled a fire. As it took blaze, she poured herself wine, walked to her office table and sat at its chair. She once again stared at the direwolf seal on the parchment. Sansa took a long gulp of her wine, broke the seal and read its words.

_305 A.C The Voyager ship - Grey Wind, weighed anchor by the Targaryen Islands._

_In the hand of Arya Stark - Princess of Winterfell, Hero of Winterfell and Captain of the Grey Wind._

_For Queen Sansa Stark._

_My First Mate, Lyno Alestor, recommends that I write the year, our location and all my titles so that people now, and of future generations, can properly track our ships journey west and it’s captain. Let me be clear, I hate it. I will only do it in formal letters written to King’s Landing or Winterfell. I hate heroes. I am not a Lady, never have been. And I am not a bloody Princess._

_On our journey to the Targaryen Islands we encountered a small storm, Grey Wind received no major damage. The islands were plentiful with animal life, Lyno, along with Mikel and Pratt managed a good two days of hunting, according to Alora and Lyno, with what we have hunted and what we took from King’s Landing, they say we have enough food for six months. I enjoy the waves and the wind, but I hope to see land before then._

_I sent a raven to King’s Landing for Bran, Tyrion and Samwell Tarly. Lyno suggests the Citadel and the Capital of the Six Kingdoms will both like a record of our journey. I have also sent a raven to the Wall, for Jon and I am currently in my cabin writing this last letter, as Grey Wind drifts offshore of Visenya’s Island. We leave at my command, but as I write this there is a part of me that wants to sail north-east, back to Westeros. Back home. But the allure of adventure, the mystery of what’s west of Westeros takes my heart elsewhere._

_This is the most I think I have said in my entire life. I suppose that is a sign for me to go._

_Sansa, this is for you. I know you will rule well. I know you are smart. You are the smartest person I've ever met. But please be careful. If I ever do return, I will only kneel to you, and no one else._

_Captain Arya Stark._

Sansa felt the single warm tear run down her cheek, she let it flow while she smiled like a child at Arya’s letter. Every parchment she would receive from Arya she would keep close to her, especially this one. Even though nothing had been set in stone, Arya seemed to be able to see the future, or was just wholly confident on its outcome, as she had called Sansa Queen and she had knelt before Sansa on the docks of King’s Landing. Sansa continued to smile as the memories fluttered through her mind, and she reread the letter — Arya’s hope and good news, her love and her wish for Sansa to be safe. And most of all Arya’s acknowledgement of her own titles. She is a Captain and the Hero of Winterfell, and she might very well be a Princess. Sansa laughed at herself, regretting that she never teased her sister over that fact. But as she re-read it again and again, and finished her wine, noon edge ever near and her handmaiden’s came to her door. It was time for Sansa to put down her face of the big sister, and wear the harsh face of the Lady of Winterfell.

The Great Hall was filled, a bustle of the voices of the lords and ladies came to Sansa’s ears as she walked into the hall. Her household guard flanked the hearth and surrounded the dais, upon which Sansa stepped up to. As she did, dressed in Stark grey, her vassals rose from their chairs at her presence. She sat, and so did they. She looked down at the hall and noticed Estyr, standing at the very end, nervously glancing around the hall and all the people who filled it. Sansa swallowed and made her voice boom so everyone would hear.

“My lords, my ladies. I am sure you are all aware of why I asked you all to this council,” Sansa held up yet another parchment she carried. “I have here, written proof from King’s Landing, signed by King Bran saying that the North is officially independent from the Six Kingdoms, from this day until the end of time.”

A resounding roar of cheers, whoops and shouts echoed through the Great Hall. The Northmen stamped their feet hard, shaking the floor. They slammed their cups and mugs on their chairs or on the nearby tables, filling the hall with a clanger of joy. But as they did, Sansa looked to her sides, at the empty chairs beside her. Bran would have been on her left at the end of the table. Sansa sat in the centre and to her right would have been Jon, and next to him at the other end of the table, though she rarely attended council, would have been Arya. Sansa stared at the chairs longingly, as the ruckus died down she faced her liegeman and gave them a sad smile.

"Though, this freedom has cost us a great deal," Sansa said. "Winterfell is well on the way to repair. But lands from the Wall down to the White Knife have been ravaged by the White Walkers. Thousands of our people died, our friends. Our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. The North needs someone to lead, to sustain the memory of those who sacrificed everything so that we may live. To rebuild our country and guide it to a stronger, better future."

She watched as the Northmen began murmuring amongst themselves. Wyman Manderly spoke to Cley Cerwyn. Rodrick Ryswell whispered deceit to his son. The hall filled with a whisper and silent conversations of head nods and hand waves and Sansa looked down to her palms. She wasn't a war hero, like Jon or Arya. She had no powers of the Old Gods like Bran. She was just a woman, with far more wit and intelligence than all the people in this hall. Sansa once again wished her siblings were here by her side. But the discussion suddenly became quiet. Sansa looked up to see the hall all looking to her.

“We already know who will lead us,” Manderly said calmly.

Meera Reed jumped off her chair and walked towards the dais. “Aye, we already have our leader.”

Lady Lyessa Flint, the widow of Widow’s Watch, rose from her chair. "Aye! Lady Sansa is a Stark, they ruled for thousands of years. Ned and Catelyn Stark were the greatest people I ever knew!"

Harland Magnar stood tall, his chair grinding back. "Sansa Stark and Jon Snow took Winterfell back, took the North out of the hands of tyrants! While Jon went south, Lady Sansa brought us peace and security, she protected our people and brought them here."

Cerwyn arose. "I was reluctant to kneel before Jon Snow. But no longer. Jon and Sansa ruled together against Cersei and the White Walkers. They led us through the Long Night. Jon Snow killed the tyrant queen. Arya Stark saved us all, Brandon Stark rules the south and their sister sits before us, she defended us, fought for our independence against Daenerys Targaryen!"

The hall echoed again with cries of agreement, Meera Reed shouted above them. "Sansa Stark did not kneel before the dragons, but I kneel before her," she drew her short sword, stuck the point into the ground and knelt on one knee. "The Queen in the North!"

Manderly rose and stepped forward, his large figure sauntering. "Aye! She is the future of House Stark, the future of the North! Brandon Stark, Jon Snow, Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, their names will live in memory along with the Age of Heroes. Sansa Stark led us through the coldest and harshest winter any of us can remember. She stood against the Dragon Queen where others knelt. Sansa Stark is the Queen who Never Knelt. She is the Queen of Winter." Wyman Manderly drew his longsword, the steel sung and echoed, he pointed the sword high. "She is the Red Wolf! The Queen in the North!"

As Manderly stuck the point of his sword in the ground, and knelt on his knee, the rest of the hall followed him like a wave. The sound of steel reverberated as they all drew their weapons. The points dug into the timber, their knees fell to the floor, and they all shouted. "THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!" the hall echoed with hundreds of voices.

_"Congratulation, little dove. You got what you wished."_

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

_"I'd be queen someday. Please make father say yes! Please, please! It's the only thing I ever wanted."_

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!" they continued to cheer, and as they did, Sansa rose from her chair. She could not hide the pride and wonder at the event before her. And she saw, still standing at the back of the hall, Estyr, a small smile on her little Dornish face.

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

_"Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them. She's the best they could ask for."_

* * *

**Three Months Later**

Winterfell was once again a buzz. The castle and its surroundings became filled with all the lords and ladies of the North, their families and a retinue of guards for each. They all came to see through the coronation and swear oath once more, all except one. Though it was not only lords and ladies that came to Winterfell — hog farmers, butchers, cooks, singers, merchants — all came to sell their wares, practice their talents for coin and join in the revelry of the coronation and the feast that would take place after. Yet they were not all Northmen, a singer from the Six Kingdoms came, filling Wintertown and Winterfell with his songs as did other lords of the Six Kingdoms. Lord Davos, King Bran's Master of Ships had come as a representative King's Landing. 

"Lord Tyrion and King Bran give their apologies for not coming," Lord Davos said when he arrived. "There is a lot of work still to do in King's Landing, they are rather busy."

"Not too busy for the Master of Ships though?” Sansa asked cheekily.

Davos grinned, "No, Your Grace… but I like it that way."

She laughed. “I'm glad you came, Davos," and she was. For all the reservations and suspicions she may have had with Davos when he served Jon, he never once betrayed him or the Starks and stood by Jon's side, till the end. 

Edmure Tully rode from Riverrun saying that he could not miss the celebration and his niece's coronation. He brought with him, his guard, his son and his wife. Though Roslin Frey Tully was courteous, she had been distant and wary of Sansa. Perhaps she would be more courteous if Arya were here, reminding her what the Frey's did and what Arya gave them in return, Sansa thought. Though that would likely only make her warier. Robin Arryn, Bronze Yon Royce and Roland Waynwood came down from their kingdom in the mountains of the Vale. They revelled in the coming feast, and Robin asked Sansa if she had built a moon door in Winterfell, she hadn't. Roland Waynwood rode to Winterfell with his family — his uncle Donnel Waynwood, his mother Carlyn and her and Morton Waynwood’s daughter, Sansa. A girl of two years with light brown hair, hazel eyes and her fathers kind smile. They were kind and generous to Sansa, as they always were. The last to arrive, and to Sansa's surprise, was Gendry Baratheon. He arrived on the day her coronation would take place, and now he stood beside her, in Winterfell's empty Great Hall. The tables and chairs that once littered the hall and been taken out, a great vast space where the lords and ladies would stand before the dais now existed. All that called the Great Hall home was the hearth at the very back, upon the dais. And in front of it, a throne. Commissioned by the Lords of the North, built by the carpenters of White Harbor and made from weirwood trees from all over the North. The Weirwood Throne laid singular and powerful in the Great Hall, its direwolf carvings snarling fiercely, as always.

"That's fine work," Gendry said as he stared at the throne. "The Northmen have done well."

"It is far more appealing than the Iron Throne was," said Sansa. _Though I would give a thousand of these thrones to have my family back._

Gendry chuckled. "I'll take your word for it, my lady... err, Your Grace."

She smiled, "Sansa will do fine, I haven't had my coronation yet."

"Well, Sansa, I've brought a gift for you," Gendry shouted to the entrance of the Great Hall, and immediately one of his guards barreled through, carrying in his hands a small, jewel-encrusted chest. The guard stood before them and opened the chest. Upon tiny silk bedding, was an iron crown. Smithed to perfection and polished to a shine, the crown showed two direwolves snarling at the front. One direwolf head supporting the other. Just as their family had. The workmanship was like nothing Sansa had seen, far better than any smith in the North she thought.

"I was told that Starks built Storm's End," Gendry stated with a smile. "It's a bit late, but I thought I might return the favour."

"You made this?" Sansa said with wonder as she took the crown out of its chest. The iron shimmered in the light. "Gendry… I can't…”

"You can, what's a queen without a crown, eh? It’s no great castle walls, but I think that crown is my best work."

For three hundred years, the North had no crown, until Robb Stark, but Sansa learned that he rarely wore his. When Jon became king, he never had a crown made, he had much more pressing issues to focus on. 

"You needn't have done this, Gendry," she said as she ran her fingers across the rim of the crown. "But it's beautiful. I love it," she placed it gently back into its chest. "Take it to Maester Wolkan, he will keep it safe until it is needed," she said to Gendry's guard. "Captain Aberdale will take you there."

As the guardsmen left, Sansa and Gendry sauntered toward the dais, the heat from roaring fire in the large hearth could already be felt. "Thank you again, Gendry. You've become quite a talented smith. I'm surprised you had the time."

Gendry smiled at her. "Well, I try to make some bits and baubles when I can. Helps keep me grounded, remind me where I came from."

"I understand. How do the Stormlands fair?" Sansa asked.

"They fair well, I guess having no wars waged is good for the people and the farmlands," said Gendry.

"What of the lords and ladies. How are they taking to their new Lord Paramount?"

Gendry stopped in his tracks. "Some of them are wary of me."

Sansa stared at the Weirwood Throne and the blaze burning in the hearth. "As they should be, you can't win them over simply by saying your are a Baratheon. You must earn their trust and support, just as they must earn yours. Come, It's stuffy in here, let's go outside."

With Gendry beside, and her household guard keeping a safe distance, they walked out of the Great Hall and through the courtyards of Winterfell. The noise of wood smacking together preceded them as they walked into the training courtyard. In its centre, stood two figures, one considerably shorter than the other. And the short one howled as the figures wooden training swords clashed together again and again. Sansa approached, and the two figures stopped instantly. The shorter figure was breathing heavily, sweat on the brow and on the ragged boyish clothes she wore. 

Sansa beamed at her. "How goes the training?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Estyr wiped her sweaty brow and shook her dark brown hair.

"Oh, is that true, Syllo?" Sansa asked with a short laugh. The other figure was a Braavosi. Paid with the money Arya had given Sansa and recommended by the Sea Lord of Braavos himself, Syllo Vollel was a Bravo Water Dancer who had spent many years sparring by the Moon Pool or hired as a guard for the nobility of Braavos. He was a slim man with beady eyes and a thin smile. His long brown hair rested on his shoulders, and his olive skin was a dark as Estyr's.

Syllo bowed deeply to Sansa. "A good student she is, Your Grace. Lady Arya taught her well. Though young Estyr is quite overconfident."

"Confidence is good!" Estyr threw back a Syllo.

The Braavosi turned on her with a thin smile. "The day before last, you cried when you twisted your ankle and got fed up with training. Now you say this is 'nothing you can't handle.' So, which is the truth, hmm?"

Estyr rolled her eyes and slowly turned her head towards Gendry. "You're Lord Gendry, right? I saw you at King's Landing."

"I saw you too," Gendry replied warmly. And Sansa watched as Estyr tried to fight back a blush.

"Arya told me that you made my sword," Estyr stated.

"I did," said Gendry. "Are you looking after it?"

"Yes, my lord. Just like Arya showed me how."

"Taught her much, Lady Arya did," Syllo added. "It has made training far easier for me, hah!"

Sansa gave him a warm smile. "Speaking of training, I think it is time you get back to it. If you'll join me, Lord Gendry."

Together, they walked up the stone stairs leading to the western battlements, and they stood alone, watching Estyr train below them. "Wonder why Arya went through all that effort for that girl," Gendry thought aloud.

Sansa wondered herself, whether she should tell Gendry the truth about Estyr. "Arya has a soft spot for peasants, I think."

"Maybe, she spent enough time with us."

" _Us_? You're a lord now, Gendry."

He smiled. "Sometimes I like to forget," then he turned around, facing west, studying the Wolfswood in the distance. "You've got a lot of work ahead of you."

"I do," Sansa admitted. "Though, I am looking forward to it, if I am honest."

"You are?" he asked, perplexed eyes marking his face.

"I enjoy the rule. And it is good to finally receive vindication after all that has happened and all that I've seen. It may be selfish, I know. But I don't care."

Gendry gave a short snicker. "Don't blame you. What's your first task as queen?"

Sansa smirked at the Baratheon. "Are you a spy, Gendry."

"Only making conversation, Your Grace."

She waved off the comment, and her smile became severe. "The North needs to rebuild, abandoned castles need new lords and ladies. Farmlands need to be sowed, armaments need to be made. And we need a fleet. But before all that, I need to set an example, to a certain oath breaker, twice over."

"Robett Glover?"

Sansa eyed him. "You know?"

Gendry gesticulated across the massive castle of Winterfell. "Well, all the North is here. I see their banners in the castle and in their camps outside the walls. But I don't see the fist of House Glover."

"You've been studying the coat-of-arms of Westeros? I'm impressed."

"I've got all the Stormlands down, most of the North too. What will you do with Lord Glover?"

"I've spent much time thinking about this. But I'm curious, what would you do?"

"Sansa, I wouldn't presume to—"

"I want to hear your opinion, Gendry."

Gendry's eyes shot to the ground in thought, then he raised them looking up to the North. "Hmm, he broke an oath, and I'm assuming you want to punish him for that. But he will stay inside his castle, so you will have to siege it. But that could lead to the death of Northmen. You'd need to take the castle without loss of life, or force Glover out of it."

"Moderate thought. There is hope for you yet, Lord Baratheon," Sansa smiled cheekily, and Gendry laughed. "But you are right. I will need to set an example to the North, I cannot allow what Glover did to go unpunished. But I do not want to be remembered as the queen who killed Northern soldiers and commoners in a siege. I have word from inside Deepwood Motte that the loyalty and respect for Robett Glover dwindles every day. Once the stories of the Long Night spread, Glover's people began to resent that they hid in their castle and that resentment only grew after the events in King's Landing and Glover's continued cowardice.

"So you are going to take his castle, from the inside?" Gendry wagered.

"In a way," Sansa said. "Though all I have inside Deepwood Motte are murmurs and half-truths. I need someone in there that can read and write. Someone that can pass as a commoner that can lurk through the castle and get me reliable information."

Gendry shrugged. "Can't help you there, sorry."

"Not to worry, I won't need help," Sansa looked up to the setting sun. "The sun is low, it's time to get ready."

* * *

The handmaidens of Sansa Stark dressed her slowly. They tied the grey gown, delicately embroidered with the red leaves of a weirwood tree. The steel bodice clasped around Sansa's chest, the plate was intricately cut to form weirwood branches. Her needle pendant, a memory of Arya, chained to the plate and hung freely at her waist. A handmaiden gently placed the wolf fur over Sansa's shoulder. The dark grey fur wolf was adorned with feathers from falcons found in the Vale of Arryn. The sleeve of her right arm was patterned with scales of a fish, for her Tully heritage. The dress and bodice piece was a design of Sansa herself. She wanted everyone to see that, though she was a Stark — and would always remain one, she had roots throughout Westeros. And it fulfilled that task. As she walked into the Great Hall, she saw the lords and ladies of the North stare at her in awe. She felt their eyes gaze to their queen. In the corner of the hall, behind the Northmen. Sansa spotted a trout, a falcon and a stag — Edmure Tully, Robin Arryn and Gendry Baratheon smiled as they watched her glide through the centre of the hall.

She floated through the hall toward the Weirwood Throne. As she passed her vassals, they began to kneel to her. Lord Wyman Manderly, his wife and their son, Wylis. Wylis' wife Leona and their daughters, Wynafryd and the brave and loyal Wylla. Lord Cley Cerwyn and his sister Jonelle Cerwyn. The widow, Lady Lyessa Flint. Lady Mira Forrester, Lady of Ironrath and her sister Talia. The old lord, Rodrick Ryswell and his vast family of sons and daughters — Roose, Rickard, Roger and Bethany. Lady Barbary Dustin of Barrowton and a former Ryswell. Eddara Tallhart, the Lady of Torren's Square and her cousins, Beren and Brandon, the castellans of Torrhen's Square. Berena Hornwood and her ward, young Larence Snow, the natural-born son of the now-dead Halys Hornwood. Harland Magnar, the former soldier and now Lord of the Dreadfort, or as he called it, Fort Magnar. His wife Kaelys and their newborn daughter, Arya. The Crannogmen, led by Lady Meera Reed — Blackmyre, Greengood and Fenn. The Mountain Clans came to swear fealty to the Starks once again, those who had survived the White Walkers invasion at least, which were only three — Norrey, Wull and Knott.

They all knelt for Sansa one after the other, and as she glided toward the throne she saw, standing in the corner by the hearth, Estyr. The Dornish girl wore a studded doublet, similar to what Arya would wear and in her hands, she held the blade — Widow's Wail. Estyr smiled as Sansa stepped upon the dais and turned to face the hall. The entire North knelt before her, and she felt the cold iron of Gendry's crown rest on her head. As Sansa lowered herself on the Weirwood Throne, Captain Aberdale Woodard shouted, "Hail! Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North!"

The Northmen rose and unsheathed their weapons, pointing them high. The Great Hall once again came to life. "THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

"THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!"

Sansa looked upon the hall and thought of those who came before. Her father, her mother. Her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. The names of old followed, great Stark kings who ruled for thousands of years. Brandon the Builder. Brandon the Breaker. The Laughing Wolf. The Hungry Wolf. Edrick Snowbeard. Robb Stark. Jon Snow. All Kings of Winter a lineage thousands of years old, and an ancient title Sansa was now apart of.

* * *

When the sun left the earth, the feast came. And with it, songs, food and drink. The Great Hall came to life with the noise of celebration. A group of musicians played at the back on their harps, flutes and drums. Filling the hall with festivity and dance. Sansa herself danced with Wyman Manderly and his son. With Lady Lyessa, Rickard Ryswell, Lord Magnar and finally with Larence Snow. The jig went on all night, and the hall overflowed with the scents of food, wine and ale. A butchered hog rested on a single table. It's meaty, earthy odour fell throughout the room.

With the hog, came cakes and pies courtesy of Hotpie. The sweet scent of the baked goods meant that they did not last long. The lords and ladies gobbled them down along with the sweet wine, sour mead and pale ale. Sansa retired from the dance and returned herself to her throne on the dais, the great table in front of her, layered with far more food than she could ever eat. She instead sipped at Arbor Gold wine and surveyed the hall. _They are all celebrating now, but sooner or later, one of these lords will betray me. Maybe even more._ Sansa thought cynically. She was surrounded by people she thought as friends and men who swore loyalty to her, but even still she felt more alone than ever with her family gone. She was the last Stark in Winterfell and she could not let her guard down. She gazed on as Estyr danced with young Talia Forrester and Gendry Baratheon. Estyr moved quickly, and she flowed through her dance like a snake. The broad smile on her face showed Sansa that the Dornish girl seemed to enjoy the revelry. Especially the company of Talia Forrester. Suddenly, Estyr slipped on her footing and fell onto her backside, those around her gawked, and Estyr began to giggle hysterically. A laugh that reminded Sansa of Arya.

Walking around Estyr, came a thin man in a fine purple tunic. He held in his hands a wood harp and wore a cap with a colourful birds feather sticking out. He approached the dais, smiled and knelt to Sansa. The hall quieted as they noticed the event.

"Your Grace," the man said as he knelt.

"Stand," she replied. "Who might you be?"

The man rose still smiling wide. "I am called, Rymund the Rhymer."

"I've heard of you," Sansa said. "Did your mother give you that name, or was that yourself?"

The hall filled with laughter, Rymund himself chortled. "My dear mother Sloan called me Rymund. 'The Rhymer' came on its own."

Sansa smiled. "Very good. What can I do for you, Rymund the Rhymer?"

"If you'll allow me, Your Grace, to play you a song. One worthy of the beauty and grace of the Red Wolf."

"Fancy southern words won't get you far with our queen, singer," Wylis Manderely shouted.

"If that is so," Rymund said. "Then I would sing a song of your family. The Wolf in the Night, perhaps? Or a new song, not one of mine, but it is of the North.

"Play em both!" Bronze Yon Royce shouted.

"Aye!" agreed Lord Davos drunkenly. Then the entire hall followed suit.

Rymund looked to Sansa for an answer, she gazed at him disparagingly. "You heard them Rymund the Rhymer. Play both songs."

"Er, which should I play first?" he asked.

"First? Play them both at the same time," Sansa jested, and more laughter came from her vassals.

"See how good you are at rhyming then, eh, Rymund?" shouted Eddara Tallhart.

Rymund looked at Sansa nervously, "Er, Your Grace, I—"

She waved him off with a hand. "Play one of whichever you like, I don't care."

Rymund bowed low, then plucked his harp. The hall fell quiet, and all that could be heard was the melancholy tune and the words Rymund sang.

_"_ _Lo, the wolves of winter,_

_in their frozen castle abode._

_They remember the woes of past,_

_the betrayal the lions had sowed._

_The twins that mark the river bend,_

_and flayed men the world will never know._

_Now their names are but a memory,_

_that will sink and sunder below._

_When winter comes the world will know,_

_when the wolves howl their song._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come._

_Here come the wolves,_

_nowhere to run when the wolves come."_

The Great Hall fell quiet once more. All the lords and ladies looked to Sansa, as did Rymund, grinning wide. "Beautiful ballads hide torturous truths," Sansa said sternly, and the smile upon Rymund’s lips died in an instant. "They never sing of all those who sacrificed themselves for us. Like the thousands of men, women, boys and girls old enough to hold an axe or a sword, who died in the Great War. Or the thousands lost during the War of the Five Kings, men slaughtered, burned alive, or betrayed... Hundreds of lives lost of men from houses great and small, or a village no one will remember. Those men whose names and banners are just as important as my own." Sansa finished; solemn agreements spread across the hall, and Rymund looked at his feet, defeated. 

"But that's not what songs are, are they?" Sansa continued. "They are for ceremony, for us to remember those who came before and the events that shaped our world. The truths they hide are for ourselves, to battle in our own time. I thank you, Rymund, that was a beautiful song."

"Well said!" came a shout from the end of the hall and a cacophony of applause and clanger of cups echoed through the stone walls. Rymund smiled again at Sansa and bowed low. He turned to make his way out but was stopped by Wyman Manderly where the pair talked eagerly.

"Well said," came the voice of Estyr from beside Sansa. She turned to the girl who had a wicked smile.

"Haven't you got a dance to be failing?" Sansa asked teasing. "What are you doing up here, Estyr?"

Estyr stepped forward and attempted to lean on the great table, she moved slowly and a hand she went to use to support herself, missed its mark. She slipped, cursed, but stopped herself before she fell. Estyr held her hands out to steady herself and closed her eyes, she tried to stand still, but Sansa could see the wobble she had. After a moment, Estyr spoke slowly. "I… come… I… _have_ come to say thank you… my lady… oh, no it's Your Grace now..." Estyr began giggling to herself.

Sansa narrowed her eyes. "Have you been drinking?"

Estyr caught her laughter and gave an exaggerated shake of her head. Trying to impose a serious look on her face. "No, no… I must say thanks. I never thanked Arya…"

Sansa grabbed the young girls hand and jerked her forward to attention. "You never have to. Now tell me, have you been drinking?"

“A little…” Estyr smiled shyly.

"Bloody hell. Who gave it to you?"

"Lady Mira… and Lady Lyessa… Please don't be mad at them, I asked for the wine. I like the taste."

Sansa scowled but relaxed her shoulders. "Well, no more. Have you eaten."

"Yes.”

"Good, you need some air though, and so do I. Come with me," Sansa rose from the Weirwood Throne, and the hall slowly fell silent. "Please continue the feast!" Sansa bellowed. "Drink, eat, waste not! My ward and I need some air."

Cley Cerwyn arose and lifted his mug. "You need another goblet of wine, my queen!" he roared drunkenly. The hall joined his cheer.

Sansa smiled at them, then directed her gaze to Cerwyn. "I would love another, my lord. If only you hadn't drunk it all." 

The hall filled with laughter and clamour and Sansa stepped from the throne and down the dais, as she passed Captain Aberdale, he whispered to her. "Outside, Your Grace?"

"To the godswood," Sansa commanded, "I need some peace and quiet."

* * *

The stars lit the night sky, joined by a cool breeze of spring. The wind sent small ruffles through the lake in the godswood, gently blew Sansa's grey coronation dress and stirred the red leaves of the weirwood tree. Sansa's guardsmen flanked the godswood and stood by its entrance. Standing tall in the breeze. Estyr stood beside her, gazing at the face cut into the tree.

"Never seen a tree like this before," Estyr said with wonder. Though she had lived in Winterfell for near three months, Estyr had never set foot in the godswood, despite seeing the tree's red leaves hanging high above Winterfell's walls.

"There are many like this in the North," Sansa said. "The ones in the south were all cut down."

"That's sad," Estyr said, and she grasped onto Sansa dress to steady herself.

"You okay?"

Estyr looked up to Sansa with an unsteady gaze. "I'm okay… just a bit…”

"Tipsy?" Sansa offered.

"Yeah," Estyr giggled. "I like your dress, it's beautiful."

"Thank you, I designed it myself. Do you like dresses?"

"Sometimes, if they're needed. I prefer pants and doublet."

 _Like Arya, and not like her._ Sansa mused happily.

"This is where Arya killed the Night King?" Estyr asked with wonderment.

"Yes," Sansa answered. "Right where we stand, we found her by Bran's side. A big pile of shattered ice by her feet." Sansa noticed the broad smile that came upon Estyr's face and the look of wonder and awe.

"I hope I get to do something that great," Estyr said.

"That's why they call her the Hero of Winterfell. But many people did heroic things that night, like Theon."

"Who's _Theon_?"

"If it weren't for him, Bran would have died far earlier," Sansa replied. "Theon was a good man." _And my brother._

Estyr shrugged then walked away slowly and picked up a short branch of the weirwood tree and twirled it about her like a sword. She turned back to face Sansa, then gazed up to the skies. She pointed the branch high. "Know what that constellation is?" She asked Sansa.

Sansa followed her pointing branch to a pattern of stars. "Can't say I do."

"It's the Eye of the Ice Dragon," Estyr said, smiling. 

Sansa's mind went back to the Long Night and the undead dragon that lay in Winterfell after the battle. Jon's tales about facing it down, thinking he would die. And the stories of all others telling of the scaled beast with icy blue eyes, shooting blue fire from its mouth. Sansa closed her eyes, breathed deep and held the memories back.

She looked back at Estyr who was twirling the branch once more, sauntering away from Sansa. "Who taught about the constellations?"

"Allyria and Ned," Estyr said.

 _Ned!_ The name of her father unnerved Sansa more than the memory of the Long Night did. Her eyes paced nervously around the ground, as a flash of her father's face came to her, with his warm smile. Then came his severed head, by the hands of Ilyn Payne. Sansa began to breathe quickly, and her hands shook. She clasped them together and gripped them tight, rubbing her palms.

She felt the presence of Estyr beside her again. "Are you okay?" Estyr asked.

"I'm fine," Sansa lied. "Who are Allyria and Ned?"

Estyr suddenly stepped back, then turned away from Sansa, trying and failing to hide an anxious look. "Uhm, my mother… and a friend."

Sansa tilted her head, curious at the sudden unease Estyr now had. Though a sudden gust of wind above her head came and the weirwood tree croaked. "Fuck!" Sansa cursed, stepping back from the weirwood. Estyr began giggling again, not hiding her amusement. Sansa studied the tree and finally saw what caused the disturbance.

A black raven had landed on a low branch that hung just above Sansa's head. The raven's beady eyes seemed to study both Estyr and Sansa, and it squawked at them eagerly.

 _Caw!_ Called the bird.

"I think it likes you," Estyr said with a giggle and began to walk away, twirling her broken branch around again.

"Well, I don't like it," Sansa rebutted. The suddenness of the event shocked the anxiety out of Sansa.

 _Caw!_ The raven called again. And Sansa tipped her head when she spotted, tied to the bird's leg, a piece of parchment rolled tightly. The raven stared at her. _Caw!_

"Dark wings, dark words," Sansa mumbled her mother's words beneath her breath. A black raven carrying a note, but did not fly to the rookery in Winterfell, only straight to godswood, right next to Sansa, gawking at her. This bird brought to Sansa's mind of her little brother's dark blue tunic, and the ravens embroidered upon it. She turned back to see Estyr, who was attempting to stand on a rock on one leg, her arms out trying to balance herself. But the wine in her young body made her tasks much more difficult. 

"Estyr," Sansa called. "Can you go and play on the other side of the lake? I would like some peace to pray."

Estyr jumped from the rock and spun around to Sansa. "I'm not _playing_ , I'm practicing the drills Arya taught me."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Well can you _practice_ on the other side of the lake?"

"Of course, _Your Grace_ ," Estyr attempted a curtsy but stumbled. She laughed at herself, then began skipping away to the other side of the lake. Sansa only shook her head as the girl skipped off.

_Caw!_

Sansa turned on the raven. "Are you done!?" she whispered menacingly.

 _Caw! Caw!_ It responded.

"Gods, I am talking to a bloody raven," Sansa cursed then stepped forward and began to untie the twine from the bird's leg. It stood patiently as she did and as soon as the parchment came free, the raven shook its head violently then sprung from the branch and flew northward.

Sansa watched it fly away, then drew her attention down to the parchment. She felt the heavy words that marked it and with them, a knowledge that she knew she would be better off not knowing. But the life of a queen carried many burdens and the North, it seems, would not be her only concern. As she unrolled the parchment, she knew that after she read her brothers message, she would need to retire to her solar. With a fire roaring in the hearth, and a goblet of strong wine. She looked down to its words, and she immediately recognised Bran's handwriting, bold and elegant.

_Sansa_

_There is no doubt you have already discerned who writes this. I write of past events no other should know for years to come. And they are of the girl you have now made your ward. As you know shortly after Daenerys Targaryen’s arrival to Westeros, and the death of the Sand Snakes, Dorne struggled with civil war. After many skirmishes, the Yronwoods came out as victors and claimed Sunspear for themselves and crowned themselves, Princes of Dorne. Though strife still exists in the country, small battles and skirmishes happen all around, and the Yronwoods have a weak grasp over their subjects. They have become exceedingly desperate in their attempt to maintain control and Olyvar Yronwood’s violence with his vassals has become an issue of great concern. Their desperation has evolved further after they learned of the existence of a child that could threaten their rule._

_A child born of lust and hatred, birthed in Sunspear, raised in Starfall. A child whose very existence threatens a kingdom. A child whose name is not known to those who seek her, yet will be found out. The girl will be hunted, by warriors, spies and the most dangerous — Faceless Men._

_I understand the reluctance you will have, but you must keep what I am about to reveal to yourself, and continue to raise Estyr as your ward as Arya asked. Let that be the common knowledge. Estyr may be young, brash and impulsive, but under your guidance, she has the chance to become something great. I wanted her to go to Winterfell, not only for her safety but because I know of no better person to teach her the ways of a good ruler than you._

_Your ward who you believe to be Estyr Yronwood is in truth, the fourth child of Lady Mellario of Norvos, and Doran Nymerous Martell, Prince of Dorne. She is Estyr Nymerous Martell, the last living Martell, and the rightful Princess of Dorne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Estyr. Questions are welcome about her and my thought process, but the circumstances of her birth, how/why she was hidden, etc, etc are explored in future chapters.
> 
> I'll also say this, Sansa made some decisions and said some things in the chapter. There are reasons behind them... :) There also is subtle hints at guilt and memory spattered throughout.


	4. The Sister of Sand and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A castle under siege and a southerner proves their worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another big chapter that is also different from my usual format. Please let me know if it is easy to understand and your thoughts in general. :)

"Uncle," said the girl. "How many stars are in the sky?"

"Thousands and thousands. More than you or I could ever count," the uncle replied.

"They are beautiful. Father says learned men use special lenses to gaze at them in great towers, " the girl told him with admiration.

"Indeed. The maesters of the Citadel study the stars, and House Dayne's ancestral sword was made from the heart of a fallen star. They say it has magical properties," her uncle emphasised the last words with a fantastical tone, waving the fingers on his hands toward her and laughing.

The girl's eyes went wide. "Will I ever get to see that sword? Oh please, uncle, can you take me to see it? I've never stepped foot outside of these walls!"

The uncle smiled. "Perhaps, after I have fulfilled my task in the Capital."

The girl stared dejectedly "Why do you go there?”

"To partake in the revelry, drinking, lies and whoring of our great king's wedding."

"Joffrey Baratheon?"

"So they tell us that's his name," the uncle waved a hand. "Bah, I have other reasons to go, more important reasons."

"Be careful. I want you to come back."

"I intend to, sweet niece. I will not die in that rancid city."

"You're overconfident," the girl teased.

"Confidence is good," the uncle said with a laugh.

The girl giggled at her uncle, but the moment of laughter and joy was broken by a distant noise. A far off chime, followed by a metallic hum. Then came another, closer: a deep boom, a chime, a hum.

"Uncle," the girl said nervously.

"Hmm?"

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what child?”

"Bells."

She spun around to find the noise, though found nothing but darkness. The metallic resonance echoed around her. The sound of city bells, one, now two. Four. Seven. They rang, clamoured and boomed. The eerie noise made the girl uneasy. 

"Uncle!" she called out and turned. But he was no longer there, and she was no longer in the Water Gardens. She stood in the red dirt of a city street. Pale red stone walls of buildings surrounded her, and the charred skeletal remains of a body lay beside her, where her uncle once was. Then a roar. A gurgling, beastly howl that shook the skies. Then came the screams of men, women and children as they ran by her in horror — the red street filled with commoners in rags and soldiers in lion crested, crimson armour. The girl felt a hand grab her.

"Come, darling! With me!” came a strongly accented voice, a distinctive, exotic drawl. A voice she remembered. They ran together, and the girl looked up to the woman who had taken her by the arm. She wore a violet dress and was tall, with slender olive skin and long black hair that tumbled around her shoulders. Her face held high cheekbones and rosy lips, and star-like violet eyes that lit up the day as vividly as the brightest sun. She was beautiful. The girl knew her face and strangely, seeing the star-eyed woman made her sad.

They continued to run up the street that seemed never to end. The roar of the beast in the skies came again. An earth-shattering screech that cracked apart the clouds. The girl looked up to see the scaled monster flying towards them, opening its terrifying jaws as if to eat the world. It roared, and fire began building in its mouth, suddenly the star-eyed woman's grip came loose, and they lost each other in the crowd of people.

A cascade of fire came bellowing up the street, destroying all it touched. The girl instinctively ran to the other side of the street, dodging like a cat through the crowd fleeing in terror from the beast. Then came the roaring blaze and she jumped behind a building as the screams of the innocent died by the hellfire that consumed them. The girl covered her ears as the flames burned the world. She screamed to block the noise of searing fire, explosions and death. When she took her hands from her ears, the world was eerily silent, all except for the cries of a young boy, and emotional shouts of a man looking for his loved ones. The girl rose to her feet, trembling with fear, her hair covered with ash. She stepped out onto the street to see charred bodies lay on the ash-fallen dirt ground. The buildings around her melted and collapsed. 

From across the street came the star-eyed woman, walking with a limp. Her dark hair a mess of ash and blood, her violet dress covered in residue and burned at the fringes. The star-eyed woman looked down the street, and the girl followed her eyes. They each saw the ravagers coming — burly men with thick beards, wearing armour. A wolf emblazoned on their plate, or a falcon painted on their shields. A dozen barbarians on powerful horses hollering wildly, the bells in their braided hair jingling ghostly as they galloped. And with them, killers in black armour with spiked helms and spears. They all came slaughtering those who had survived the fire, cutting down soldiers pleading for mercy, dragging away women and girls. Mercilessly killing and butchering. 

The girl looked back to the star-eyed woman, who called to her, screaming and gesticulating for the girl to flee. But as she did, the killer's in black armour came closer, the star-eyed women saw them and tried to run away, though it was too late. The girl saw a man in black armour, his dark onyx eyes searing with murderous intent as a spear flew from hands, and pierced through the back of the star-eyed woman.

The woman, the girl once called _mother_ , fell to the dirt. The spear through her heart and blood pouring from her mouth. Her star-like violet eyes, suddenly paler. The girl cried, screamed wildly and the beast roar came once more, as the skies fell upon them.

* * *

She awoke with a heavy sweat on her brow, her body shaking, a pounding heart and a single bell resonating through her ears. She sat up quickly and breathed in the fresh air slowly, trying to calm her fluttering soul, trying to remember where she was, and who she was. The world, ever so gradually, became more lucid. The bell manifested beyond her mind, ringing louder, reverberating around the bailey of the castle she called home. And then came the shuffling feet of people, as they scurried along the dirt grounds. She heard a man's voice directing them. "GET TO YA HOMES! SEEK SHELTER! HURRY NOW!" 

"Papa!" Ally called out. "Stefon!" No response came from the dank hut she resided in. She guessed he was already at the stables. Shooting up from her bedding furs, she threw on her rough-spun cloak, a gift from her father. It was brown, dirty and full of holes, but it did enough to protect from the Northern chill. It covered a dull blue tunic, also full of holes and rough-spun pants. She lifted her bedding furs and pulled out the leather thong from underneath and pulled it over her head. The small pouch that hung from the thong jingled as she stuffed it beneath her ragged clothes and shifted her heavy cloak over her shoulders. As she left her father’s thatch hut, outside was found to be sombre with a cold misty chill of morning. Dull silver-grey clouds rolled high with the threat of snow, and the crowd of people came fast before her. They raced across the bailey in a frenzy, carrying their children in their hands or whatever valuables they could grasp. She saw the innkeep his arms full of pitchers of wine, ale or mead heading towards the longhall. The butcher, casually walking across the bailey carrying a slump of venison over his shoulder. And the smithy, slugging around a handful of crude axes and swords without much enthusiasm. Soldiers of the castle, or bannermen from House Woods and Branch with bow, pike, half-spear or weathered axe marched to ready, formed together beneath their banners or entered the two towers that stood guard above the palisade wall. Then amongst the fray, Ally spotted a young, dirty haired boy running by her. It was the butcher's boy.

"Markus!" she called to him. 

The boy slid to a stop and spun around. "Ally? What you doing?"

She ran up to him, skipping past the crowds of people, brushing her dark hair back. "What's going on? Why's everyone in a panic?"

"Ain't you hear?"

"No, I ain't hear."

Markus shook his head. "The queens brought an army! Come to siege the castle."

 _The queen?_ Thought Ally, _today?_ "She really?"

"Yeah, ma says she'll send a thousand flaming arrows and burn the castle down."

 _She'll do no such thing_. But Ally did not know that. She did not even know the queen nor seen her face. Ally was just a poor girl who had come to this castle a month ago, seeking her long lost father. A stable master by the name of Stefon, who had a bit too much extra-curricular fun during his short stay in Pentos in his whaling days. Though the guardsmen she saw walking towards the towers, she did know. 

"Gerrad!" she yelled. The hulking brute of a man stopped suddenly and looked towards whoever called. When he spotted Ally, he dropped his head and shook it tirelessly. Ally grabbed Markus by the arm and together, ran towards Gerrad.

"Can you take us up on the wall-walks?" she asked him with a pant.

"What for?" he demanded with his throaty groan. "Yous twos should be back in ya homes, or tryna get into the longhall."

"We just wanna look, Gerrad. I need a look."

The brute soldier gave her a cautious eye. "Ya need to, eh? Is anything gonna happen?"

"If it does, you’ll know when."

He studied her with a stupid look on his face. "Oh, fuck. Alright then, stay with me." Together they followed Gerrad up one of the stone and wooden towers, running up its slim, winding stairs until they came out to the wooden wall-walks. A dozen soldiers stood there, watching the army out in the field. Gerrad pushed into the centre of the walk, Ally and Markus squished in beside him, standing on their tiptoes to look over the timber trunks.

Across to the south-east, in a field of tall grass before the Wolfswood began, stood an army. Shield and sword. Axe, spear and pike — bannerman to the queen, standing tall. Ally guessed maybe two thousand men were in that army, and she observed the sigils flying above them. House Bole, a small house of the Wolfswood, once sworn to master’s of this castle, but they joined the queen rather than face her wrath. By their side was the ironwood sigil of Forrester, another house once sworn to this castle and its family. Next was the three sentinel trees of Tallhart. The black battleaxe of Cerwyn. And flowing high above them all — the crowned direwolf of Stark.

"Thought she might’a brought the whole North," Markus blurted. 

"I thought she would’ve brought some siege weapons," Gerrad added.

 _She won't need any. She won’t even need the army_. Ally believed. Then came the sound of horses racing across the bailey. Ally turned around and watched Lord Robett Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte riding upon his black destrier. Beside him was his son Gawen Glover, a gaunt-faced young man. Following them came four guardsmen, the men most loyal to Lord Robett. Ally knew them all, she had to. There was Clyn, youngest of the guards a man who seemed very kind when Ally talked to him. Tobin, who's uncle, was the smith of the castle. Then Alec and Kay, brothers. They rode hard, their horses creating a mist of, mud and grass behind them. 

Deepwood Motte was an old wooden fortress upon a hill, surrounded by the dark and foreboding Wolfswood. The bailey circled the base of the hill and where the stables, paddocks, smithy, the old well and the sheepfold were. An earthen dike and palisade logs protected the bailey with a single drawbridge and gate at the south-east side of the hill. The two towers and wall-walks between them, where Ally now stood, rose above the gate and drawbridge as tall wooden sentries. Located high on the flat peak of the hill was the longhall, large and resolute. A watchtower sat next to it towering fifty feet higher, and its bell was still ringing. The standard of House Glover, a fist on a scarlet field, bristled above the watchtower.

Ally’s eyes followed Lord Glover as he and his escort rode underneath the wall-walks, through the gate and across the bridge, out to the field to meet the besiegers. She drew her eyes once again toward that army in the distance. Looking at its centre and squinting her dark eyes, regarding an elegant white horse, dressed in a fine caparison of grey trimmed with white. Upon that horse sat a figure in white, with long red hair and a glint of polished iron upon it. Surrounding the figure was lords, ladies and an array of heavily armed guards. Suddenly, another banner rose below the crowned direwolf. Its velvet material showed a deep purple and a sigil of a white rising sun, with a shooting star above it. 

Ally grinned and turned to Markus. "Oi, you seen me father?"

"He's at the stables, probably," Markus replied.

"I gots to go," she blurted. Before either Markus or Gerrad could object, Ally flew from them, running across the wooden wall-walk and skipping down the towers winding stairs.

The bell’s ringing slowly began to die down as Ally ran through the bailey, scarce of small folk now that they had fled to their homes or retreated to the longhall and watchtower. The ground crumbled beneath her feet, and she could feel the dew and wet mud seep into her thin leather shoes. She went by the smithy who closed his door hard, sprinted by the butcher who was cleaving apart meat from bone, utterly disinterested in the events of the morning. People scurried inside their thatch-roofed homes as Ally ran by them panting harder and harder as she followed the bailey around the base of the hill. Finally, the stables came in the distance built right against the palisade wall near the paddock where a dozen horses galloped freely. Inside the stable, a black pony chewed at a bale of hay, a courser jostle around in the grass and a bay filly neighed happily as her father was saddling it.

"Pa!" Ally greeted him breathlessly.

He spun about. "Hmm?" he groaned with a grimace. The old man's grey, receding hair and thick grey eyebrows did not do him any favours with the constant scowl he seemed to wear.

She took a deep breath from the long run she just had and said plainly. "It's time.”

"Aye, thought so," he replied. He let go of the saddle and walked toward her. "You sure her men are gonna be out there?"

"She said they would. She wouldn't lie."

"Ugh," her father groaned again. "Come on then."

Ally followed her father around the back, to a small gap between the stable and the palisade wall. She glanced behind her, making sure none were looking at them, as her father began to remove the wooden stakes of the palisade placed into the earth. They had made the task easier, thanks to the last month of slowly loosening the logs, day by day. After making certain no one watched them, Ally assisted Stefon when she could, lifting the trunks of oak and sentinel tree and helping her father place them across the earthen dike on the outside of the wall. Once two logs had been placed, Ally stood on the outside, looking out to the thick Wolfswood. She cupped her hands around her mouth and howled.

_Awooooo_

Moments later within the wisps of pale mist threaded through the woods, a gravely howl called in response, and then they came out from behind the sentinels, oaks and black briers of the Wolfswood. One hundred men skulked from the dense woods in heavy plate emblazoned with a crowned direwolf. 

A third log fell across the dike, and then a hand clasped her shoulder hard, spinning her around. "Ya owe me," said Stefon, gripping her tightly.

"Not doing this for your country?" Ally replied sardonically.

"Piss off with that, this ain't even your country girl. I was promised reward."

Ally shoved his hand off her and proceeded to remove the thong about her neck. She thrust it into the old man's chest and gave him a despised look. "Take it, and get out of here. Go back home. It will be over soon."

"Wait on," Stefon said. "What's ya name, girl?"

"Ally," she responded disparagingly.

"I know that ain't ya real name."

"I'm not supposed to tell you my real name."

"Piss with that. I deserved to know who’s been living under my roof this last month. Whose been skulking about Deepwood and sending off letters to singers and riders. Who I've been breaking my back for taking these fucking logs out of the ground. Tell me."

Stefon was right, Ally knew. He had done this for coin but at great risk. What harm would come if he knew her real name? The siege would be over soon.

She sighed and gazed at him numbly. "Estyr. My name is Estyr."

* * *

The sun had come to the grey castle walls and with it, the crispness of morning. She had just finished her early session of water dancing with Syllo, dancing across the sodden grounds of the training yard. Doing her best to perfect the stances, thrust, drills and yet more that Arya taught her. _Swift and deadly. Quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake._ Now she walked passed Winterfell’s sept and into the central courtyard, her sky blue tunic and brown pants damp with sweat and her boots squelching the short grass beneath her. This had been Estyr’s home for almost half a year, and she had liked it, for the most part. The days went by consisting of training with Syllo in the mornings and the evening's she practised Arya's drills on her own. Throughout the days, she had lessons with Maester Wolkan, he would teach her writing, reading and sums. The coat-of-arms of all the Great Houses of Westeros, including the histories and seats of Westeros, and lately Essos too. Estyr already knew how to read and write, she had received lessons before she fled to King's Landing, and she knew the sigils of all the Great Houses in Dorne. Still, she never said this to people, no one need know who she really was and she had already came to close to the Queen finding that out, she needed to be more vigilant with what she said. Her father had said not to trust anyone that isn't a Martell or a Dayne. So she kept her prior education a secret and Maester Wolkan just thought she was an excellent student, and the queen made it clear that Estyr's education was mandatory. 

Every other day she would practice horse with Georg, learning to control her chestnut, Viper. Making the avid animal respond better to her commands and the reigns. Edric Dayne had taught her to ride on a white pony, trotting around the paddock inside Starfall. She had thought she did well. Ned would often tell her as much. However, after riding on Viper, she knew that the white pony in Starfall had just been well trained, and well mannered. Those were her days in Winterfell, training, learning, riding. She would wander the castle in the downtime during the day, play hop frog with the smith's daughter, or talk to Hotpie in the kitchens. At night, she would stare at the stars trying to find the constellations that Allyria and Ned Dayne had showed her — the Ice Dragon, the King's Crown. The Stallion. 

Despite all she had in Winterfell, she yearned for more, as she had in her previous life. In Dorne, she would run with her handmaidens through the terra-cotta walls of Sunspear, sneak through its winding alleys with Trystane and wander the bazaars speaking to people buying all sorts of odds and ends. Or she would play in the Water Gardens when they visited the palace. Even when she fled to Starfall, she did not want for adventure. She would swim with Allyria in the Torrentine. Watch Ned train with swords, Climb the Palestone Tower. Roam through Starfall's bright gardens and sneak through the castle’s white halls hiding from Ned and Allyria and the guardsmen alike. The House Dayne guards of Starfall used to call her, "Estyr Littleboot." And sometimes, when she behaved, Ned would let her look at the legendary sword, Dawn. She would grin stupidly as she stared in wonder at the beautiful white blade, then sadden when she remembered Oberyn telling her about it. 

King's Landing offered just as much, at least before the dragon came. She would wander the streets with Allyria and go into shops just to look at what they had. They would watch the mummers shows. See the ships at the docks. Visit the ruins of the Great Sept and the Dragonpit and do more sneaking yet; nabbing sweet cakes and pies from the baker's stalls. Winterfell though had little similar to her life in Dorne or King's Landing. The old grey castle had a rugged beauty about it, much like the Northmen that lived there. Though there was no flowing river she could swim in, aside from the hot springs and the small pool in the godswood that she rarely visited. There were no grand bazaars or palace of water gardens. No shows for mummers or great vendors selling their wares. Winterfell was cold and dull, it had a glass garden where fruits and vegetables grow, and sometimes pretty flowers, like the icy blue Winter Rose. Though there was nothing Estyr could do there, but look and smell its earthy scent.

Beneath the castle had the crypts that she had not seen. She yearned to go down there and explore, but she was not allowed in the crypts for reasons no one told her. The inside of the castle, however, was a labyrinth of winding grey halls leading to keeps and towers throughout. Though her time in adventuring through them quickly became dull as she was always on her own and was never playing games or hiding from someone like she did in Starfall. Everyone inside the castle was always too busy, especially the queen. The last time there was any sort of fun in Winterfell, was the feast after the queen's coronation. Estyr remembered that night vividly, the sweet taste of wine, the songs the singer sang, her dance with the pretty Talia Forrester with her light hair and fair eyes. And her moment with the handsome Gendry Baratheon. His deep blue eyes, his powerful, burly arms. The glint of sweat on them and the twitch of his muscles as he held her in their dance. Finally, she recalled happily, her quiet time of peace with the queen out in the godswood.

That revelry and moments of joy and harmony only made her long for more, though the longer she stayed in Winterfell, the more out of place she felt. She would often catch a glaring eye of some small folk, or the whispers of the servants — despite being a ward under the protection of the queen, the people did not seem to trust her. She believed it was merely because she was Dornish and her strange Dornish accent seemed to make that worse. Even her Braavosi dancing master, Syllo, got strange looks. The Northmen, it seemed, did not trust outsiders. Though when she spoke to Hotpie, he seemed to love it here, despite the cold, and he would often say how nice the people were. Estyr only believed that was because he made sweet cakes, loaves of bread and pies that everyone seemed to love. She was not the only southerner in Winterfell, but she was the only Dornishmen, and likely the only Dornishmen in the entire North. That made her feel alone.

Some nights in the castle would prove more difficult than others. Estyr would find her mind, trailing off with memories, though she considered them nightmares. The dragon roars would come first, then the screams. The flames, the blood and the scorched bodies all flurried through. Her heart would rage at the visions of slaughter that befell her mind. And her soul would shriek when those visions showed Allyria, the beautiful Dayne, with her violet eyes and high cheekbones that lay dead in a pool of her lifeblood. The Unsullied spear through her back, and the dark onyx eyes of the man who delivered it there. When these nights came, Estyr's body shook with anxiety, fear, hatred and anger. She lay in her chambers — Arya's old chambers the queen had given her — throwing herself around restless. Oft nights she would retreat from the room and sneak down Winterfell's winding halls out to the yards where she would unleash her fury on one of the many training dummies that littered the courtyard. Grabbing a wooden or a dull bladed sword and letting each blow thrown, temper her rage. Hating herself that they murdered Oberyn while she danced in the water gardens then fled to Starfall while the Sand Snakes butchered her father and her brother. Resenting that Allyria died while she stood, doing nothing. With each whack on the straw figure, tears would come unbidden to her eyes, though she let them flow. _They all died! And what for!_ More and more tears would come, the warmth of them streaming down her cheeks, chilling under cold Northern night. Estyr would sob and wail as she beat the straw dummy over, and over until she was so exhausted she could barely walk back to her chambers and finally rest.

Last night was such a night of restless despair and anger. Her eyes were heavy with sleep as she strolled through the castle yards, a hand resting on the hilt of Starfall sheathed at her waist in its supple leather scabbard. Starfall was the shortsword Arya gave her, Estyr carried it with her always, and whenever she looked at it, it reminded her of Arya Stark's smile and her words, "I will always be by your side." Estyr spent the late morning trying to find the queen. She was not in her solar or the library. She had not been in the Great Hall either. Estyr had not seen nor spoken to the queen all morning, in fact, the last proper conversation she had with the queen was in the godswood on the coronation night. Since then, the queen had seemingly become distant, often busy with her duties. Speaking to her vassals. Attending court to see to the complaints of small folk or the lord of a holdfast. Overlooking the repair of the North. Organising shipments of timber to Essos, King's Landing or the Wall. Or in discreet meetings with Maester Wolkan, Lord Cerwyn or Lady Forrester.

There were times Estyr tried to speak to the queen, she would try during supper, but if the queen were not already eating inside her chambers, she would be in the Great Hall feasting at the great table with a Lord or Lady she had invited to Winterfell. When Estyr did get a moment with the queen, she would only respond curtly, with a "yes" or "no," then become awash in her duties again. It all made Estyr feel more and more alone. She wanted an end to it, and she hoped today would bring that. So after exhausting other places in Winterfell, where she thought the queen would be, Estyr followed the red leaves of the large weirwood, that hung high above Winterfell. Her hopes grew, for as she came closer to the archway leading to the godswood, she spotted two of the queen’s guards, standing at the threshold — Fat Fred and Walter.

" _Lil' girl_ ," Fat Fred said when she came close. "What are you doing about?"

"I'm looking for the queen, _Fat Fred_ ," Estyr replied.

Fat Fred gritted his teeth and shifted his weight uncomfortably. "You gotta stop calling me that, girl."

"Stop calling me little girl."

"You are a lil' girl ."

"And you're fat."

Walter stifled a laugh. "She got you there, Fred."

"Shut up! I ain't fat. It's just all you are skinny!"

"If you say so," Estyr said disinterestedly. "Is the queen in the godswood."

"Aye, she is. But she's busy," Walter answered.

 _Apparently she's always busy_. "I need to speak to her."

"And I need to take a shit," Fred told her derisively. "You don't see me complaining."

"You're complaining now. Please, it's urgent."

Fat Fred sighed impatiently, but Estyr gave him a kind smile, and he relented. "Fine then, come with me. If I get in trouble for disturbing the queen, then it's on you!"

She followed him through the archway and into the godswood, passing by the grey-green sentinel trees, tall soldier pines and thick ironwoods. White rays of sun gleamed through the dense canopy showering the earth with spots of light amongst the shade. They walked across the trail of humus and moss that led to the centre where the heart tree and the black pool lied. The water trickled in the lake as Estyr strolled by and finally, they came to the weirwood tree, with its strange face. Three figures stood by it, Maester Wolken, Captain Aberdale and the queen with her flowing, vibrant red hair.

" … in the castle, someone that can bloody read and write. Someone—” the queen suddenly stopped speaking to her advisers and turned to face Fat Fred and Estyr walking up behind them.

"Sorry to bother you, Your Grace," Fat Fred said. "But Estyr here says she needs to speak to you urgently."

The queen's sharp blue eyes studied Estyr for a long moment then she lifted her gaze to Fat Fred. "How is Lyra, Fred? Feeling better, I hope."

Fred looked happily surprised. "Oh, she is, Your Grace!"

"I'm glad, give her my regards. You may all leave us. We will continue this discussion later."

Estyr stood silent and still as the three men began to leave. Captain Aberdale gave her a warm smile and patted her shoulder as he passed. She was wary of the Northern soldiers, though she had heard that Aberdale was liked by many, including the queen and her sister, though she found out that was because he was not a pushover and was loyal to the Starks without question. Shortly after arriving at Winterfell, it was Aberdale that showed Estyr around the castle and to her new chambers. During that time, she asked him if he had joined the sack of King's Landing. He said he did, but that he only attacked Lannister soldiers. Estyr was not sure if she should believe him, but she liked him regardless.

The queen had turned back to face the heart tree, Estyr stepped beside and stared longingly at her. The queen wore a dark grey gown with white trimmings, a black breastplate tight around her waist and chest. And a grey wolf fur cloak that swayed in concert with trees of the godswood. The queen did not wear her crown, but her hair fell gracefully below her shoulders and over her cloak. The more Estyr looked at her, the more she reminded her of Allyria. With her tall, slender figure. High cheekbones. Piercing bright eyes. Regal grace and exceptional beauty. Though the queen had a hardness about her, in the way she spoke and carried herself and a pensive face that seemed as if to weigh every decision she made, large or small. She was only in her twenties, yet the queen's life experience had given her a wisdom far beyond her years.

Quiet was the woods, aside from the song of birds, the sway of leaves or the trickle of the black pool. The queen broke the silence further as she said sharply. "Urgent is it? Yet you don't speak."

"Sorry, Your Grace," said Estyr timidly. "I just, I just—”

"What, you just what?"

"Why do you ignore me?" Estyr finally blurted.

The queen turned on Estyr, with an incredulous look. "Beg pardon?"

"We've hardly talked for months! You deliberately avoid me!"

"I have been busy, Estyr.”

"Bull!" Estyr stamped her foot, irately. "You're not always busy! You just shove me off to Wolkan or Georg or Syllo to deal with me, then leave me trapped in this castle with nothing to do! I want to see the North! I want more!"

The queen did not immediately respond at first. She just stood, regarding Estyr, and as her face slowly became irritated, Estyr began to regret what she had said. "Perhaps you would prefer to be living back on the streets of King's Landing. I can arrange it."

"No, I didn't mean—”

"I am terribly sorry that you live in a castle. In chambers that belong to a Princess of Winterfell. With warm food in your belly, a maester to give you lessons, a dancing master and your own horse!"

That only made Estyr feel terrible, and suddenly tears came to her eyes. "My queen, I—”

"Do know how many thousands of people would give all they own just to have a bed like yours and warm food?"

"I do, I just—”

"My sister went out of her way to help you, and so did I. You have no idea what I've risked bringing you here, and now you have the gall to complain!"

"I didn't…” tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to speak. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then tell me how you meant it," the queen demanded.

Estyr wiped her face harshly. "It's just… I'm grateful for everything — for the lessons and the training. I like Wolkan and Syllo and Georg. But they're not, they're—”

"They're not what?"

"They aren't you! They aren’t Arya!" Estyr sobbed. "You ignore me, Arya’s gone, and you act like I don’t exist, and I don’t know why! I do the same things every day, thinking that I did something wrong or that you grew sick of me. Some nights I can’t even sleep, and I can’t talk to you about it. I'm sick of it all! I want Winterfell to be my home, but I’m afraid it never will be. The people here don’t even like me."

“That isn’t true—”

“How would you know? You’re never around!” Estyr spat.

The queen stood quiet, her hard face, slowly becoming gentle. Though Estyr looked to the ground, shaking her head at what had just happened. Suddenly and without a word, the queen turned and left. She walked out of the godswood, the streams of sunlight brightening her red hair. Estyr fell back against the heart tree and cried.

On the morrow, Estyr sat in Winterfell's library glancing around the large room with its small hearth, trying to imagine how Arya snuck through it with all the dead around. Estyr thought she might have been able to do it too, but she would never know. And that's a good thing, she deemed. The library smelled of old leather and musty wood. Light snow fell outside the windows and Maester Wolkan sat next to her. He was timid but incredibly kind and smart. Easy to tease but fascinating to talk to. In the time between their lesson, Wolkan would regale Estyr with life as a student in the Citadel, or his period of serving the Boltons. 

A book lay open in front of them on the wide library table. The pages showed a detailed map of Essos, though the names of the cities and any location of import were blank. This afternoon would consist of more lessons of the Free Cities. 

Wolkan tapped on the open book. "Again, this city?"

Estyr scratched her head. "Um… Pentos! It is governed by Magisters and a Prince. But they can’t have an army or hire any sellswords because Braavos won’t let them."

Wolkan grinned. "Good and Braavos?”

Estyr leaned over the table and pointed to where the lagoon city of Braavos was. “Here, it's richest of the Free Cities. Ruled by the Sea Lord of Braavos, and it’s where Arya used to live.” Estyr smiled to herself at that knowledge. “I’d like to go there someday.”

“Maybe you will! Now here?” Wolkan tapped again on the page.

“The river Rhoyne.”

“And this city up here?” Wolkan pointed to a city that laid on the banks of a tributary river than ran off the Rhoyne.

“Um.. oh," Estyr knew it started with an 'N', but the name lost her. "Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come, you know this," he tapped the map again. 

Estyr racked her mind, but she could not find the answer, and she was beginning to grow frustrated. She decided to change the subject. "Maester, why am I learning about the Free Cities?”

"Because the queen wants you to?" He replied.

 _Of course she does, but why damn it?_ "Why, maester?"

"I don't know, Estyr. It's what she asked of me."

"Do you know the queen well?" She blurted.

"Come now, Estyr, this is not apart of your lessons."

"I know, but tell me anyway. Please? Please, please, please!"

Wolkan smiled and gingerly placed his pointer on the table. "I know the queen as well as she wants me to know her. She is a very busy woman."

Busy? _I'm starting to hate that word_. Estyr had told the queen how she felt and what did she get in return? She left her alone in that old wood next to that tree with its stupid face. All the stories she had heard about the queen and what she went through, what she did, made Estyr think so highly of her. But she found only to be disappointed. The queen may have suffered a lot, but she was a bitch.

A rasp came at the library door, and it heralded Captain Aberdale. "Estyr girl, the queen needs to speak to you," he said — his massive beard bouncing with every word.

"Well, tell her I'm busy !"

"She won't appreciate that."

"I don't care! I don't appreciate her. Tell her that too," Estyr shot up from her chair and marched off to the hearth, crossing her arms as she stood gazing into the fire.

Aberdale stepped beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. "She told me you might act like this. Come now, she awaits you down in the crypts."

 _The crypts?_ "I… I thought I wasn't allowed in the crypts."

"Guess you are now, come with me." The crypts beneath Winterfell housed the old King's of Winter. Its winding labyrinth of tombs and tunnels sparked Estyr's curiosity. But she was determined not to give in.

She shook her head. "No, I don't want to go."

Aberdale laughed. "It doesn’t matter what you want. Come now." He guided her gently away from the hearth, and ever so reluctantly, Estyr followed him.

The ironwood door to the crypts stood ominously beneath the archway. Two direwolf statues flanked it, and as Aberdale opened the heavy door, it creaked and groaned like a living thing. Estyr accompanied him down the winding stairs into the dark abyss. Fortunately, every few feet became lit by sconces mounted on the walls, however, the lower they went, the colder it grew, and Estyr wished she had brought a cloak. She was not used to this cold, and it wasn't even winter! She wrapped her arms around herself as they continued down.

They finally reached the base of the stairs to the dirt of the underground, and as she followed close behind Aberdale, Estyr glanced nervously at the tombs — thousands of years old and all of them had their own separate alcoves. Statues stood in front of the tombs, holding an iron sword and a direwolf statue laid next to them. The sculpted faces seemed to follow Estyr and give her a disapproving glower. Every other tomb had large cracks in them or had their lids completely broken or removed. Estyr darted her eyes about tensely, wondering why. Were they being repaired? Was it wear? They've been here for thousands of years after all. Estyr told herself not to be afraid, but as they walked down another tunnel, the shadows of the statues, lit by the fire of the sconces, seemed to twist and turn and follow her.

Finally, they found the queen. She stood before a statue, holding a candle. Comfortable and unafraid. She wore the same coat as she had the day before, though her dress seemed to be different — pure black velvet. Estyr and Aberdale stopped just near her, no words were said, the queen just nodded to Aberdale, and he left straight away.

"What do you think?" Said the queen after Aberdale parted.

"What do I think of what?" Estyr replied curtly. Was the queen trying to scare her by bringing her down into this dark, dank place of shifting shadows? Estyr once again told herself she would not be scared.

"Your attitude saddens me."

"Good," Estyr forced herself to stare at the queen as she turned sharply and stone-faced.

"You want me to apologise, is that it?" The queen said disdainfully.

"Wouldn't hurt."

"I won't. If you don't like it here, get your things, get on your horse and go back to King's Landing, or Dorne, or wherever you bloody say you're from."

Estyr swallowed. She had not expected those words, and they hurt her more than she realised. But she would not let herself cry. She bit her lip, hard. Harder. And wrapped her arms tighter around herself, it suddenly became colder.

"If you stay here, good. I'd rather you did. Though it would help if you grew up, I have a task for you, but it can't be done by a child."

"Task? What task?" Estyr said, trying to sound disinterested, though undoubtedly the queen saw through it.

"There is a matter in the North that you could help with. It will take some time to plan, and I am still uncertain of your role. But in the meantime, you will attend some meetings with me and join in the planning. You said you wanted more to do, to see more of the North? Well, this is your chance."

Estyr tried her damnedest not to smile. She even bit her lip again to stop it. But the queen saw it and frowned. "Don't think of this as some kind of reward. Your lessons and training will still be prioritised."

"No, no, I don't," said Estyr, shaking her head. "When do we start?"

“Soon. For now, let’s talk. You never answered my question about the crypts."

"Oh, well, it's nice down here, I guess. Cold and dark though."

The queen snickered. "Doesn't sound very nice."

"No, I suppose not," agreed Estyr with a grin. "Why are some of the tombs cracked open or destroyed?"

"Because the dead came out from them during the Great War," as the queen spoke, she placed the candle on the tomb in front of her and started at unclasping her cloak.

"Is that what all the talk about the fighting in the crypts is?" Estyr asked.

"Yes," replied the queen and she removed her cloak, knelt down and wrapped it around Estyr tightly. It was far too big for her, but it immediately warmed her cold Dornish skin. "You're freezing."

"What about you?"

"I'm used to the cold," she rose again, taking the candle back in her hands and stared at the statue of a man.

"Who is that?" Estyr asked, silently thanking the warmth the cloak gave her.

"My father, Eddard Stark," the queen moved down to the next alcove. "This is my aunt, and Jon Snow's mother, Lyanna Stark," she turned and pointed at two more alcoves with statues, a young man and a boy. "And those are my brothers, Rickon Stark, and Robb Stark. Once King in the North and King of the Trident."

Like the other statues, Estyr passed in the crypts these all had statues of direwolves next to their masters and iron swords, though Lyanna Stark's had no sword, but an open palm that the queen gently placed her candle in. 

Estyr regarded the stone statue of Lyanna and couldn’t help but recognise it. “She looks like Arya.”

The queen smiled. “Apparently they were very similar. Arya will be down here one day and so will I, and Jon, Bran too. I will make sure they all have their own tomb and statue."

"What about your mother, is she down here?" said Estyr.

"No," the queen said sadly. "But I remember her in the sept."

"Do you pray there?"

"I'm done with praying. I only remember now. Do you pray, Estyr?"

She thought on the question a moment. She had not prayed to any of the gods since she left Sunspear, and what for? What kind of Gods let the skies fall on their people? "No, Your Grace. I don't pray."

"Don't believe in the Gods?"

"I believe in them, I just…"

"Don't like them very much?"

"Yes," agreed Estyr quietly.

"You and I have that in common. I hear you remember quite a lot now too. I hear the dummies in the training yard take quite a beating some nights."

"It’s only… I can't sleep sometimes."

"So you've told me. Is it the attack on King's Landing that keeps you?"

"Yes. But, other things as well."

"And you chose anger to handle it?"

"We all handle what we go through differently. You told me that."

"I did. But anger..." the queen shook her head. "It can consume you if you are not careful."

 _Let it_. Estyr gave the queen a sad and empty gaze. "You don't know what it's like… to watch someone die… because of you."

"I do, little viper. Trust me, I do," the queen knelt down again and placed a hand on her shoulder. "My family’s words _Winter is Coming_ , gave me much strength in my time as a prisoner. And they proved to come true, winter came for all those who betrayed us. I also like the Martell words. Do you know them?”

“Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken,” Estyr said without hesitation.

“Will you let your anger bend you to its will? Will you bow to your nightmares? Will you let these things break you?”

Estyr gazed into the queen’s beautiful blue eyes with renewed vigour and admiration, she smiled. “No, I won’t”

The queen returned her smile warmly. “I believe it. From now on, if you continue to have these thoughts and nightmares, you will speak to me instead of destroying things in the middle of the night. Understood?” 

“Okay,” Estyr agreed happily.

"Good. Come, there is someone we need to meet,” together they made their way out from the crypt. Estyr asked her if she wanted her cloak back, but the queen waved it off, and so as they climbed the winding stairs, the wolf-fur cloak trailed behind her, and the queen made no complaint. At the shutting of the ironwood door, the sun seemed to shine brighter than it ever did before. The queen's guard met them beneath the archway by the crypt's entrance and followed behind. They all made their way through Winterfell, the heavy boots of the guards and the gentle gait of the queen crushed and cracked the thin layer of snow that had built upon the ground.

One hundred men were of the queen's household guard. Picked from those who fought during the Great War, and the Last War. These men guarded Winterfell and kept the peace — walking along the battlements, through the halls, within the courtyards and keeps, and outside the castle walls by the inn and the village of Wintertown. Estyr had come to know a few of those men. Molen, with his scarred cheek. Daren, who claimed to be the best with a bow in the North. Miles and his love of bacon. Warner. Jak Bren. Beken. 

Of those one hundred, five had been chosen by the queen herself as her own sort of personal, 'Queensguard.' These were men of unquestioned loyalty, years of experience and highly capable warriors. They stayed by the queen's side almost always, and Estyr knew them all. Fat Fred, who Estyr admitted, was not actually fat, just big-boned. He wielded a fierce double-bladed battleaxe like a madman. Walter was slim but moved as quick as lightning. Alyn fought with a sword in his left hand, just like Arya. Then there was Aubrey, the female warrior. She had fought hard during the Great War claiming to have killed hundreds of wights. Estyr had seen her fight during drills, and she had a ferocity to match any man. Finally, Aberdale, the captain of the whole household guard. The most experienced and the most trusted. He had fought for the Starks since the Battle of the Bastards. Marching with them today, was Aubrey, Alyn and Aberdale. Once they all arrived at the sept, they flanked the entrance, standing still and stoic. 

Winterfell's small sept resided in the courtyard that led to the Great Hall. Its small door led into a windowless wooden sept with seven walls lit by candles and smelling of incense. Each wall had artwork of the Gods upon ledges. Some simple carvings, others like the Mother and the Father, were statues. In the centre of this flowery smelling sept, near a brazier roaring with fire, stood a man who plucked at the strings of a woodharp.

He turned at the presence of the queen and bowed low. Estyr recognised him at once, it was Rymund the Rhymer. "Your Grace, quiet a humble sept you have. I did not know Winterfell kept the New Gods."

"My father built this sept for our mother," the queen replied. "I had it repaired after the Great War to honour her memory."

"A noble purpose, Your Grace," Rymund gazed down at Estyr and grinned. "Who might be the one wrapped up like a sausage?" 

Estyr glowered at him, she still had the queen's cloak shrouded around her, and it was still far too big. She realised how silly she must look. "I'm Estyr, you stupid poet."

He shifted back and laughed "M'lady, I am wounded that you call me stupid. Yet it does beg the question. Can one be a poet if they are stupid? You would think they'd require some intelligence. Perhaps even—”

"That will do," interrupted the queen. Rymund gave a short bow in acknowledgement, and she stepped toward the brazier, warming her hands by the flames. "What information do you bring? And please don't make it rhyme," she said.

Rymund strung his harp with a sad cord. "The Master of Deepwood Motte is quite the insular man. He let me play one song, then threw me out of his longhall."

"I did not pay you to play songs to Lord Glover," the queen snapped.

"No, Your Grace, but I learned some in my time in his longhall. And yet more in the castle bailey and the shitty little hut they call an inn."

The queen turned on him, Estyr saw the unimpressed look on her face. "And?"

"There is discontent amongst his people."

"Yes, I know there is discontent. I've known that for some time."

"And… since you sent the parchment to Deepwood that simply said, _Winter is Coming_ , Lord Glover has grown increasingly paranoid, fearing you might attack at any moment.” 

“Good, that was my intent.”

“Indeed, and he's marshalled those Houses loyal to him, those that still are anyway. And has set them to defend the Motte. Though many inside the castle are not happy, including several of the guardsmen, they do not like to think they are being laughed at by the rest of the North. As well as the innkeep, a few servants in Lord Glover's kitchens. The smithy, though his nephew does not share his opinion. And Deepwood’s Master of Horse who is a rude old git, though he is quite an interesting man. Used to be a whaler and is probably one of the few people in the North who has been to Essos. Handily, he too has grown a dislike of his lord."

"Good, very good," said the queen.

"Quite a few inside Deepwood Motte believe that not defending Winterfell in the Great War was cowardly. Many of them deem that not attending your coronation was shameful. You have many allies inside the castle, Your Grace."

"Yet I cannot just attack the castle. I can't risk their lives, whether they are my allies or not."

"They will rise for their queen against their false lord!”

"They will not rise for someone who burns their homes and kills their friends and family."

"Well, what do you mean to do? A sneak attack? An assassination? Take the castle from the inside? Oh! Any of those would make for a great ballad!"

"I do not share those matters with singers," the queen replied flatly.

Rymund gave a satirical glance of shock, exaggerated by the notes he struck on his harp. "You wound me, Your Grace. Do you not trust me? Have I not served you well?"

"You served me well because of the gold I promised you, and the task you did for me was far less dangerous than the one I need done now. The moment I trust you with anything more than chatting up locals, is the moment the Wall falls down."

"Ha! This is true!"

The queen smiled. "You may leave, Rymund. Captain Aberdale has your gold. Enjoy the south."

He bowed once more and played a happy tune on his harp as he waltzed from the sept. Estyr followed him with uncertain eyes. When the tiny door shut behind Rymund, she turned back to the queen. "I don't like him."

"Why? Because he called you a sausage?" said the queen with a mocking smile. "I don't like him either, but he has provided good information."

"How do you know he won't betray you for more gold?"

"I'm sure he will, but he wouldn't dare while he's in the North. In the south?" The queen shrugged. "That doesn't matter."

Estyr stepped up to the brazier, next to her queen. She gazed around the seven-sided room, with its seven art features of statues and carvings. Her eyes rested sadly on the Mother.

"We have work to do," the queen said suddenly. "You most of all."

Estyr looked up to her. "What would you have me do?"

The queen gazed at her for a long moment, Estyr could feel her blue eyes pierce through her, she felt a chill up her spine. "I need your help, but..." the queen stopped speaking, her mind trailing off. She stared at the statue of the Mother. "If something were to happen to you… my sister would…”

"No, I can do it!" Estyr pleaded. "Whatever it is, I won't let you down!"

"It will be dangerous, and it will take some time to plan."

"I can do it!"

The queen took a deep breath. Her eyes darted between the statues of the Mother and the Father. "Then we had best get started, little viper."

* * *

Flakes of snow slowly began to fall, and the air grew colder. They dropped gently at first, then harder and harder until one could be forgiven for thinking winter had come. Estyr wrapped the raggy cloak that belonged to Stefon, around her tighter as she watched Aberdale and Aubrey cross the hastily made bridge of oak trunks taken from the palisade wall. The Northmen followed, Estyr recognised some: Jak, Bren, Miles, Warner and others too. They were one hundred men, most of whom were of the queen's household guard. Well trained warriors and well-armed in heavy plate or boiled leather. They all displayed round iron shields and a sword or axe at their waist. Though, most of them carried a wooden cudgel in their free hand, so that it may make it easier to knock a man out, rather than kill him.

The armour of the Northmen brought her mind to memories she wanted to forget. She forced her eyes closed. _This is not King's Landing, the Northmen haven't come to sack this castle, they’re my allies now. There are no Dothraki, no Unsullied... and no dragons_.

"Estyr! Well done!"

She threw her eyes open, Aubrey had come to her with a great smile. Aubrey was a rather unattractive woman, with a broad face and dirty brown hair she tied up in an unkempt knot. But her confidence, sauntering gait and her ferocity in battle made her alluring to men and women alike. Strangely, Estyr noticed a rolled piece of white velvet tied around Aubrey’s back with rope.

"What's on your back?" Estyr asked her.

"Stark banner," Aubrey winked then slapped a hand on Estyr's arm. "You did good, girl!"

"Aye, ya did," Aberdale had appeared beside Aubrey echoing her sentiment. "How many men should we be expecting to come up against?"

Estyr hesitated, she was never able to get a full count. "Nearly two hundred. I think."

"Two hundred," Aubrey blurted in a hushed voice. "We only have half of that!"

"Most of them are conscripted peasants with pitchforks and lumber axes, and half of them don't even want to fight for Glover," Estyr said. "They will surrender once they see all you coming at them. The ones who fight? Well, you'll just have to knock ‘em out."

"Easier said than done, Estyr," Aberdale objected. "The lad in the watchtower, can he be trusted?"

"If Erik had betrayed me, he would have rung the bell a long time ago. He hasn't." 

The boy in the watchtower beside the longhall on the peak of the hill was named Erik, for his father. He was a youth of fourteen, yet taller than Estyr, with a small face, bushy eyebrows, pale green eyes and a wisp of a moustache. Lord Glover picked Erik to keep a lookout in the high watchtower because it was said that he had eyes like a hawk, and his hawk eyes were infatuated with Estyr. As was her hope. One time in Dorne when Estyr lay next to Allyria, basking in the southern sun together. Allyria playfully teased the castle cook that had a habit of staring at her. Once the chubby man ran off flushed with embarrassment, Allyria rolled over and told Estyr a secret. 

"I've got a secret for you, darling. Men are like harps, pluck the right strings, and they will play to your tune!" Allyria had giggled like a little girl, and Estyr, who was a little girl, giggled with glee. She never knew her real mother, whenever she asked her father, or even Oberyn, they simply said that she was ”far away." Estyr was not stupid, she knew that meant dead. Allyria became the mother she never had in those days. They were great days, but they were gone, far gone. She now lived in the cold and dreary North, and for the past month, she had remained in this old, worn and uninteresting castle called Deepwood Motte, living as another person called Ally. 

Ally was a happy girl from Pentos, who had sailed across to White Harbour with her mother using the last of their coin. Though disaster struck when her mother became ill on the voyage and died just before docking at the Northern city, leaving Ally alone and scared. The Gods seemed to favour Ally, however, for the granddaughter of the Lord of White Harbour, found her and took pity on the young foreign girl. Wylla Manderly, with her long blonde haired dyed with streaks of green, took Ally in and with the fat lord Wyman Manderly's aid, they made it their duty to bring the girl to her long lost father in Deepwood Motte.

All of this, of course, was part of a much larger ruse concocted by the Queen in the North. The Manderly's were happy to assist, Wylla most of all. She along with a dozen guards from White Harbor, escorted Estyr from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte to see her there safely and to convince Lord Glover of the ruse. He was suspicious at first until Wylla told him, "the queen doesn't care about White Harbor, she’s happy relaxing about her great castle while we bring in all the money. She cares even less about this poor foreign girl, my lord. Ally here lost her mother; all she wants is to be with her father." 

Estyr knew how difficult it must have been for Wylla to speak ill about the queen and the Starks, for Wylla Manderly had been the most loyal and devoted Stark supporter Estyr had ever met. On their journey from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte, Wylla spoke of the promises of loyalty the Manderly's owed to the Starks of Winterfell."My ancestors had to flee from the Reach, they went North, and the Starks took them in, without question. They protected us, gave us a home… and we betrayed them." Wylla dropped her head, but just as quickly lifted it with renewed vigour. "Never again, though. I shall die before a Manderly betrays the Starks." 

Wylla was bold, outspoken and brave. And it was just a woman like her to marry Captain Aberdale, of the newly created House Woodard. This was a rare marriage of love, they had grown close when they met at the queen’s coronation and Wylla could not go a minute without speaking to Aberdale. In contrast, her older sister Wynafryd would marry Larence Hornwood, formerly Snow. For the Hornwood’s support, beginning with their aid at the Battle of the Bastards, the queen decreed Larence a true born son of Halys Hornwood. And granted him Last Hearth and all its earnings. The marriage of Larence and Wynafryd was arranged by Larence’s aunt, Berena Hornwood, Wynafryd’s father Wylis Manderly and the Lord of White Harbor, and her grandfather, Wyman Manderly. The queen approved it eagerly and so, Larence and Wynafryd Hornwood of Last Hearth, would become a cadet branch of House Hornwood of Hornwood.

Though marriage and titles seemed a half a world away, as the attempt to fool Lord Glover worked. Wylla's words, along with a handful of gifts, including several barrels of White Harbor's highly regarded black beer, had convinced Lord Glover to let Ally in so she may live with her "father." Stefon took that role, though he was married to a fat woman whom's face seemed to constantly pout. Stefon had initially lived in White Harbor, spending his early years on whaling ships that sometimes took him across the Narrow Sea. In his older days, he found land and took up duties as Deepwoods Master of Horse after theirs had passed. Stefon had no love for Lord Glover, but he only agreed to assist the queen and partake in the ruse, purely for the gold the queen had promised him.

Estyr, as Ally, was nervous out of her wits when she arrived at Deepwood. She was afraid the people would not believe who she was or simply would not talk to her because she was not a Northerner. The queen's words, however, gave her strength. "Be kind and charismatic as I know you are, but don't be a pushover they will respect you more if you show strength and resilience. Sing and dance for them, be a happy girl and stubborn too, and they will slowly welcome you."

Decidedly enough, slowly but surely, she won the locals over. And in return, she learned more about Deepwood and Lord Glover. She befriended the innkeep, a few guardsmen and many of the young boys and girls. They would ask her about where she came from, and she would tell them all she knew about Pentos. (She thanked the stars for Maester Wolkan's lesson and told herself she would never take them for granted again.) Stefon would gather her parchment and ink when he could, and Estyr would write with word to the queen, telling her of Lord Glover and the castle. The words were full, detailing if Lord Glover had made any changes to the castle, how many men he had, which seemed to grow weekly. She wrote informing that Lord Glover had brought in two of the Houses of the Wolfswood and conscripted peasants to defend the castle. And she wrote of the friends “Ally” had made. These parchments were handed to Northern merchants, traders, farmers, lumberers or hunters that visited the castle and spent time at the inn. In reality, they were the queen’s men.

Estyr befriended a big beast of a man called Gerrad, who was one of Lord Glover's officers. He would tell Estyr how much she reminded him of his daughter, only with darker skin. One late night when Gerrad drank far too much of the beer from White Harbor, he admitted his utter disdain for Lord Glover. "The North laughs at us, Ally! We should've been there at Winterfell fighting with the rest of 'em! But that blockheaded coward Glover couldn't let go of his pride. The queen will come for him, bloody fool." The next day Estyr confronted Gerrad about his foolish words and he begged that she not tell a soul. She would not. Instead, she told him that the queen was coming for Glover, and thus Ally had another friend in the castle. Gerrad told her of Erik, the watchtower boy, and she learned how the boy was found and picked by Lord Glover to keep a lookout with his little hawk eyes. She made it a mission to meet him, for she knew that if he were to spot the queen's men coming from the flank, they would have a much more difficult time getting into the castle.

It was at the small inn, (or the shitty little inn, as Rymund the Rhymer called it) where she met Erik on one sunny afternoon. He was immediately interested in her, and it took little effort for Estyr to befriend him. One night, they managed to sneak up to the watchtower, where together, they gazed out upon the vast Wolfswood. A deep howl of wolves came, and Estyr feigned a look of fear and grasped tightly onto Erik's arm. He smiled, and with all the effort of a boy trying to sound like a man, he said: "Don't worry Ally, they can't harm us up here. And if they do, I'll protect you." He proved it by showing her his axe that he used for chopping wood and his helm he wore while he stood guard. It was a battered old thing of beaten iron with a visor that shut with a loud clunk or opened with a noisy creak. He let her wear it, and she giggled and flirted all the while. In return, Estyr, or rather Ally, showed him the constellations of the stars.

Throughout the days and nights, she gained his confidence, and she eventually asked him about Lord Glover. Erik liked him, mainly because he gave Erik this watchtower duty that he enjoyed. But he was also unsure of the Lord and said that all the talk of what happened in Winterfell, only made Glover look like a coward. This would complicate things, Estyr thought. She was no longer sure whether she should tell him the truth. So, instead, she chose to use the truth, to tell a lie.

"Do you want to go to Pentos with me?" She asked him one day as they lay on damp grass.

"P-Pentos?" Replied Erik, dumbfounded. "I mean, I would love to go… but how, Ally?"

Estyr leaned in closer. "You have to promise me you won't tell a soul."

"I promise,” Erik whispered.

"Swear it,"

"I swear!"

Estyr felt terrible for what she was about to do, but Erik was young, he would get over it, and her. She looked into his pale green eyes. "There is going to be an uprising in this castle soon."

"What!”

She put a finger on his lips. "Shh! The queen will come, and people will revolt. And there will be some men wanting to sneak into the castle from the west."

"How do you know all this?" Erik demanded wide-eyed. 

"I can't tell you just yet, not until it is all done. You'll be in the watchtower, and you'll see those men approaching from the west. You have to promise me that you won't ring the bell. Do it when the queen comes, but not when the men want to sneak in."

"But why?"

"Because if you don't. The queen will siege the castle, and hundreds of people will die. If you let the men sneak in, they'll take the castle with no deaths."

Erik furrowed his thick brow deep in thought and wrought with concern. "I don't understand… how do you know all this."

"I'll tell you all after. When it's all over I'll make sure they let us go. Then we can sail to Pentos together and we can eat grapes by the sea, or watch the travellers coming in by the Sunrise Gate. Or visit the Red Temple!”

The frown and concern left Erik’s face. “I’d love to do all that.”

“I’d love to do it all, but only with you,” Estyr gave him a coy smile.

"Okay, I promise. I won’t ring the bell. But you have to tell me how you knew all this, Ally."

“I will. And promise me, if fighting does happen, don’t try and be a hero,”

“I promise.”

Estyr kissed his cheek and giggled, and his face went redder than a fresh tomato. Erik, the young watchtower boy, was playing to the tune of Estyr’s harp and she smiled to herself thinking of Allyria. She decided, however, that she liked him, in general, at least. He was not handsome or particularly smart, and he was only a peasant. But he was sweet and loyal as the rest. Once again Estyr reflected on the lies she had told him, and silently regretted that Erik would never really go to Pentos.

That was a week ago when she was Ally of Pentos. Now she was Estyr, out by the palisade wall of Deepwood Motte with one hundred Northerners ready to raid the castle. She could feel her nerves building as she asked Aberdale for her sword. “Did you bring Starfall?” she asked him with an anxious patter to her voice.

He was holding it in his shield arm. Aberdale exposed the thin shortsword, housed in its supple leather scabbard and handed it to Estyr. Though the belt which she would buckle around her waist was not hers, she looked at it with deep regard. It was made of fine leather, with perfect gold stitching around its edge, the buckle was deep polished bronze. All around the belt were burnt in images of a rising sun, with a shooting star above it

“The queen made it for you,” Aberdale said smiling. Estyr loved it, and it fit her perfectly. She positioned Starfall on her left hip and tightened the buckle until everything sat comfortably. A sword by her side, made her feel stronger and strangely made her feel older than her thirteen years.

“Hope you don’t plan on using that,” Aubrey said.

“I’ll fight if I have too,” Estyr replied, trying to gather her confidence.

“No you won’t,” Aberdale shot back. “The queen will take my head if anything happens to you. You’ll stay behind me. Got it?”

Estyr dropped her shoulders. “Got it.”

“Good, let's go.”

They marched forth in a split force, fifty men went with Aubrey to circle the bailey and fifty went with Aberdale where they would meet up by the two towers by the gate and drawbridge. Estyr stuck to Aberdale's heels, Starfall half drawn from its scabbard, ready to use. They passed the butcher's house. The smithy. Thatch houses with people peeking through their windows or doors nudged open slightly, and all the while they met no resistance. All the attention, it seemed, was focused on the queen and her army outside the walls and Estyr knew that having no ringing bell was a great boon to their efforts, she smiled to herself as she thought on that, and then, the bell rang.

It clanged suddenly and loudly, each metallic thump leaving a resonating ring in its wake. Then came yells from the tower. Inaudible shouts and hails, men from the longhall joined in. Aberdale grabbed her shoulder hard. "You said the watchtower bell wouldn't ring!"

"It wasn't supposed to! I don't know what's happening. Maybe... maybe someone else climbed the tower and saw." _Yes, that had to be it_. Erik was in her palm, and he _promised_ her.

No more could be said as suddenly Estyr, Aberdale and their fifty Stark soldiers were confronted by a mass of men, Estyr guessed they numbered nearly eighty in total. These men wore bits of plate armour above mail, others in boiled leather adorned with the sigil of House Glover, House Woods or House Branch. They were armed with a sword or axe and shield, trained soldiers. Most, however, were in rags or cheap doublets and roughspun pants with leather boots carrying weathered pikes, axes or half-spears and they bore an expression of uncertainty and fear upon their faces. They were peasants, not soldiers.

The bell continued to ring, but neither group moved to attack. Aberdale stepped forward, pointing his sword lazily about the group of men. "We are taking this castle in the name of Queen Sansa. More soldiers lie on the other side of the bailey. You are surrounded, none of you needs die."

Motion came from the rack of peasants, and a big man pushed through, Estyr knew him at once, it was Gerrad. He stood at the front, and without hesitation, threw his sword on the ground. "You'll have no quarrel with us, my friend," he said calmly, and he smiled at Estyr. Then a peasant at the front threw an old iron axe on the ground, then another and another, more and more dropped their weapons. Estyr sighed with relief until a man's wail caught her. A soldier came charging from the crowd his plate and chain rattling as he ran towards Estyr, screaming, "Deepwood!"

Aberdale stepped in front of her, took the man's wild sword cut with his own and with practised ease, parried it deftly then smashed the butt of his sword against the man's helmeted head. He fell to the ground in a great clanger, two Stark soldiers surrounded him. None more tried to attack, their weapons were secured, and they were led to the gate where Aubrey and her men were already waiting.

"They just gave up as soon as they saw us. When the bell rang, none of 'em attacked," she said to Aberdale. The bell had stopped ringing some time ago.

"They're mostly peasants," said Aberdale. "And the soldiers haven't got the spirit."

"Especially when officers like Gerrad, surrender," Estyr added. "But it's not over. We need to get up to the longhall, that's where the rest will be, and Lady Glover."

Aberdale had ordered most of his men to surround those that surrendered which numbered well over a hundred, though they seemed to stay subdued. Aberdale was not taking any chances, however, and only chose ten others to join him and Aubrey to climb the hill to the longhall. Estyr stepped in beside him.

"You stay here," Aberdale commanded her.

"No," she said curtly. "I didn't live in this wooden hole for a month just to watch our work unfold from back here."

"Estyr!" he bellowed angrily.

"I'm coming with you whether you like it or not," she marched forward up the hill, forcing the rest to follow.

When they arrived at the entrance to the longhall, it was as Estyr feared. They tried their hardest to heave and force open the door, but it had been barred from the inside. "The fuck do we do now," said one of the Stark men.

"Burn the fuckers," replied another.

"Shut ya gobs!" Aberdale roared. He turned to the barred double door of the longhall. "Ho! The castle is surrounded. Open these doors, and none will die!"

"Fuck you!" came a cry from inside.

Estyr grabbed his arm. "There is another way," she whispered. "Through the watchtower. Follow me."

Five Stark men stayed at the entrance, bashing and hollering at the door, keeping the attention of those inside, while five more followed Estyr, Abderdale and Aubrey around the side of the longhall. They ran toward the fifty-foot watchtower, with its square base and its single door. When Estyr tried to open it, the handle would not budge, only making a clink.

"It's fucking locked, Estyr," Aberdale said with bewilderment as if this was the most surprising thing that could have happened.

She did not reply, only reached into the inside of her tunic, to a small pocket she had crudely sewn into it, and pulled out a set of iron tumbler lockpicks. She found the right one and set to work, slowly defeating the lock.

"You lil' thief," Aubrey said, though her tone was full of delight. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Arya showed me in King's Landing," Estyr said plainly. Her focus was on the latch.

"Never met Lady Arya. Saw her, but never met her," Aubrey admitted.

Aberdale spoke up, "If you ever meet her, don't call her a lady."

Just then, the latch made a satisfying snap and Estyr gently pushed the door open. "Locked was it, Captain?" Estyr said, teasing. "You can call me a lady, you know?"

Aberdale shook his head. "That'll be the day," he stepped into the now unlocked watchtower, the soldiers followed through, Aubrey and Estyr came in behind. 

The watchtower connected to the back of the longhall, it was musty and warm inside, with the smell of burnt wood. They came out next to the dais upon which Lord Glover's high seat resided. Down the longhall were stretches of tables and chairs on either side and above them, a second story where old wooden doors led into chambers, sconces burned bright next to each one. However, their attention was to their front, across the walls cowered what seemed like hundreds of small folk and servants, gripping their loved ones. In the centre, stood fifteen House soldiers by Estyr’s quick count. Aberdale drew his sword once more, and the others followed suit or made ready their cudgels. Estyr kept a hand on Starfall, prepared to use it, though partly hoping she would not have to.

"Throw ya weapons down," Aberdale shouted. "There is no point in fighting!"

None did as he commanded. Instead, the Glover soldiers screamed and charged across the longhall. Aberdale gripped his longsword, and yelled "Winterfell!" Aubrey and the Stark men echoed his cry, they all stepped forward in front of Estyr, screaming it again and again. But they were outnumbered, even if they won the fight, many would die. The Stark men and Glover men clashed, a horrible resonance of steel and wails of men, wooden cudgels smashed against plate armour, steel sang as swords met and beside Estyr a Stark soldier fell to the ground, bleeding from his neck.

She glanced at the door. The bar that blocked it from the inside had to be taken off. Estyr jumped back from the commotion and spun around the feet of men as they tried to kill each other. She felt a hand try to grasp her, but she shimmied it off her and rolled away deftly. _Agile as a cat_. The double doors came closer as she jumped from chairs and leapt onto a table while the battle raged around her. Her cloak bristled behind as she sprang and jumped across the tables of the longhall while more men tried to grab her, but she was too fast. _Quick as a snake_. She leapt of one last table and rolled her landing just before the double doors. The heavy wooden bar was too much for her to lift in one go. Instead, she proceeded to push it off its iron hinges from one end. Inch by inch it moved, until the block of timber fell, and the door burst open with more Stark soldiers ready to join the fray. 

Estyr took the hilt of Starfall in her right hand and drew it. It gave her strength just holding it. She raised the sword high and screamed "Winterfell!" 

The Stark soldiers behind her joined the battle cry, and they ran by her, charging the Glovers. As the men fought, Estyr dashed in and slashed Starfall across the unprotected legs of Glover men, exposing them to knockout blows from a cudgel or the butt of a sword. Or to fall to the ground, grasping at their legs with agony. She saw Aubrey fighting fiercely, a sword in one hand, a cudgel in the other. Two men were attacking her. She parried a strike with her sword and with a swift motion brought the cudgel upon the man's head. He careened sideways, falling into the other man and Aubrey let out a great cry and kicked him hard. Both men fell to the ground, and Aubrey took the fight to another.

Aberdale was worse off, he was trying to fight three men and was losing, pushed back further, and she could see that he bled from a deep cut on his arm. Estyr once more jumped from table to table across the longhall, Starfall tight in her grip. She landed hard and sprinted toward Aberdale, she slashed the legs of one man, and he fell forward with a great cry. Then she saw a short man in an old iron helm, bringing his axe down upon Aberdale's exposed back. She jumped forward and pushed Starfall's point into his bare thigh. When she drew it, his blood gushed from the wound and sprout on Estyr's clothes and her face. 

The small man fell to a knee and caught a glimpse of Estyr, he groaned and swung his axe at her, she jumped back from his blow deftly. He reeled forward and whirled again, but this time, after Estyr easily dodged his swing, the short man lurched forward with his legs and grabbed her arm. She slashed the edge of Starfall across his wrist, but despite the profuse bleeding, he held on tight. He seemed to stare at her, and she could hear muffled words from behind his helm, curses maybe. Though she did not want to wait and find out, and she did not wish to lose her arm to his axe. She noticed he wore no gorget making the small man's neck, clearly exposed. Estyr stepped forward, gripping Starfall tight, and as quickly Arya herself would have done, she stabbed its point into the man's neck. It pierced the skin with ease, blood immediately spouted from his mouth, she withdrew Starfall, and more blood gushed from the open hole. His grip on her arm fell away, and the man clutched at his neck, choking. But while his lifeblood drained, he looked at her with horror in his eyes... his pale green eyes, he gasped, trying to speak, and she thought she heard him say, "Ally.”

The battle stopped when the man fell, four Stark soldiers lay dead, the hall full of wounded, unconscious or killed Glover men. Aberdale stood with a deep gash in his arm, Aubrey sheathed her sword and came beside Estyr, asking if the man was the first person she had killed. Estyr did not respond. She swallowed hard and moved towards the man lying on the ground. His helm looked familiar, she thought. She lifted his visor that opened with a noisy creak, and she saw his small face, his bushy brow, his wisp of a moustache and his pale green eyes. It was not a short man she had killed, but a young boy. It was Erik.

Starfall fell from her hands as she reeled back in horror of what she had done. Aubrey and Aberdale came beside her trying to calm her sudden wailing, but she could not hear them. She could only hear Erik's little voice that tried to sound like a man. _I promise_. She rose suddenly and leaned over his body and hit his unmoving chest with her fist. Her tears falling uncontrollably. "Why!" she pleaded to the dead boy. "You promised me! You weren't supposed to fight!" She felt strong hands suddenly grab and lift her from Erik's corpse. They carried her out as she sobbed.

The crowned direwolf of Stark flew from atop the tall watchtower of Deepwood Motte still visible amongst the dense snow, that had not stopped falling covering the land in white, sleet mat. Estyr sat on a bay filly, her face and chest still doused in Erik’s lifeblood, Starfall back at her side. She sat sullenly on the horse, ready to ride out to her queen and report on what had happened. _What happened is that I killed a boy, a sweet boy, not a year older than me. I murdered him._ It felt bad enough to lie to Erik to get his hopes knowing full well everything she said, and all he believed would happen, would not. He was dead because of her and gone so early. She suddenly found herself growing angry. Why did he ring the bell! Why did he attack me! Answers to these questions would likely never come, and that made her grimace with fury. Deeply in her heart, she wished that Arya Stark were here. The Hero of Winterfell would know what to say.

She wiped off harshly, the tears on her cheeks, as she spotted Aberdale riding up to her with a scarlet coloured banner rolled up under his arms. He stopped his horse next to hers and held forward the banner. "You should be the one to lay this before the queen. You did well."

"Yes, I killed a boy. I _did well_ ," she said scornfully. 

Aberdale looked at her solemnly. "If you hadn't, you'd be dead, and I'd be bringing the queen your body instead of a banner." He placed the rolled banner across her horse’s saddle. "Come, let ride out." She sniffled, took the banner underarm and followed Aberdale out of Deepwood Motte.

Twelve rode out from Deepwood, across the snow-ridden field towards the queen's army. Estyr galloped behind Aubrey and Aberdale, taking the rear was the Lady Sybelle Glover and her daughter Erena. They sat on their mounts with sour faces. Stark men flanked them, of which a few still had smears of blood upon their armour from those just slain. Lord Robett Glover found himself surrounded Estry noticed, as they came closer towards the two thousand strong armies, they saw him, his son and his four guards in the centre of a mass of Northmen, the queen sat mounted on her white palfrey, staring down Lord Glover. Mounted beside her was Mira Forrester, Clay Cerwyn, Jonelle Cerwyn and Eddara Tallhart.

Aberdale pushed through the crowd with his horse and motioned Estyr to come forth. She dismounted from the bay filly with the Glover banner in her arms, and when she broke through the crowd, she saw the Queen in full detail. The breeze gently blew her red hair, which she had placed in many tight braids and sitting neatly upon it was the direwolf crown. She sat tall on her white mare called Winterrose, wearing a dress of pure white, its trimmings finished with grey fur and decorated all across it were red leaves of a heart tree. The queen slowly turned her head toward Estyr, her face was a mask, and she offered no words. Estyr took another step forward, unrolled the Glover banner before the feet of the queen's horse, and knelt on one knee.

"Your Grace. Deepwood Motte is yours," Estyr said proudly.

"Look at me," she heard the queen's stone voice say. Estyr looked up to her apprehensively. "Who's blood is that?" the queen asked.

"Not mine, Your Grace," Estyr replied, but she would say no more of the boy she killed, not now at least. Nor did the queen ask anymore, though Estyr could have sworn that she saw the slightest glimmer of relief upon her face.

"Enough of this farce!" barked Lord Glover. "I know who are you little bitch!" Still kneeling, Estyr looked toward him. He was pointing an angry finger at her, and his face wore a frown as jagged as a rock. "I let you into my castle!"

"Not your castle anymore," Estyr shot back.

Glover scowled at her, then flared at the queen. "I come to parlay with you, and you betray my trust by sneaking this little foreign whore into my castle and killing Northmen! Do you have no honour!"

Estyr rose as the queen brought her attention back to Lord Glover. "Honour?" She said quietly. "You speak to me of honour. The man who broke two oaths and cowered in his castle while Northmen sacrificed themselves."

"I swore my oath to the King in the North, not some Targaryen bitch!"

"So did everyone else!" the queen suddenly roared, her voice as rough as gravel. "Yet they still honoured their oaths of fealty they made to Jon Snow! They fought by our side in blizzards against dead men! They watched their King fight for them! While you did what? Sit by the warm fire?"

"I—”

"You are a coward, and you have shamed your family and the North."

Robett Glover's face flushed with anger. "And you are a southern bitch who married a Lannister! You presume to rule us with your pet!"

"Watch your tongue before I remove it, Glover," Eddara Tallhart bellowed.

"Pah! You're all children!"

The queen glowered at him, but rather than continue the verbal war. She chose to end it all. "Lord Robett Glover, you will be sent to the Wall. You will serve the remainder of your life as a black brother. Your son will remain as the Master of Deepwood Motte."

"No," Robett replied harshly.

"Are you refusing to follow your queen's command?" Eddara said.

"I will die before I join the Night's Watch and serve with that kneeling fool Jon Snow, or is it Aegon Targaryen? Another southern bastard."

Estyr looked to the queen. Her wry face was full of malice. She took a deep breath. "Get Lord Glover off his horse and fetch a block."

With strange synchronicity, those that encircled Robett Glover drew their swords with a hum of steel on leather. Robett's four loyal men and his son, Gawen, drew theirs in response. Lord Glover rose a lazy hand to them. "Let it be. Queen Sansa wouldn't dare kill me."

 _She wiped out the Boltons and killed their lord with his own hounds._ Estyr thought. _You're nothing to her._ The queen said nothing, and the circle shrunk around Lord Glover as the queen's men stepped toward him. His guards tried to canter their horses to protect their lord despite being outnumbered, they fought to press forward, and a few swords clashed, but Stark soldiers enveloped them and threw them from their horses. Estyr knew these four guards, friends and respected men of Lord Glover. The young Clyn, thrown from his saddle, a foot laid into his back after he hit the ground. Tobin, who managed to get to his feet and fight for a short while, before being knocked out. And the brothers Alec and Kay, Alec’s horse was killed as he attempted to ride men down. Kay tried to fight his way to help his brother, but he never made it passed the two men in front of him. They showed their fierce loyalty and with that commotion only came more objections.

"No!" Sybelle Glover screamed. "Don't you dare! Leave him be!"

"Please don't hurt him!" Erena cried. "Father!"

"It's okay, sweetheart!" Robett yelled toward her as he was pulled to the ground hard, but it did little to waver his contempt. He grimaced at the queen as her men lifted him up. "This is the queen's justice, is it? I protect my people, and you make a show of it to my wife and daughter?"

"I wouldn't call pride and cowardice, protecting people," Jonelle Cerwyn said mockingly.

"Shut your mouth, pup!" Glover spat back as they forced him to walk towards Fat Fred, who had fetched a large stump that would act as a chopping block.

"Don't speak to my sister like that!" Cerywn growled.

"Or what, boy? Is it you that will take my head, or cower behind the queen’s skirts? And you Mira, anything smart to say? You swore loyalty to my House, and you betrayed me!"

"I did swear an oath to House Glover. But it is a shadow of what it once was." Mira replied calmly. "The Starks saved us. Queen Sansa gave us our freedom. You gave the North nothing." Robett Glover's reaction showed that he would have unleashed in a fit if he were not kicked in the back of his legs and forced to kneel before the large stump. 

"Leave him!" Sybelle shouted her face a grimace of anger with marks of tears. “Don’t you dare hurt him!”

The queen dismounted from Winterrose and said softly to her Captain, "Aberdale, the sword."

Aberdale nodded and stepped back, though Clay Cerwyn leaned over his horse and spoke in a whisper. "Your Grace, you don't have to do this."

"Shut up, Clay. The queen can do what she likes," Jonelle Cerwyn snapped at him. Estyr had never spoken to Jonelle, but in this brief moment, she liked her. So far.

"Aye, but taking a man's head is dark business. I'm happy to do it, my queen. Or at least get one of the other men here to do it."

"They aren't Starks," the queen said to Clay. "Our way is the old way. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

"With respect, Your Grace, but you aren't a man."

The queen favoured him with a smile. "Yet I rule them." She removed her crown and handed it to Estyr and moved towards the stump where Robett Glover rested his head. Aberdale stepped in beside her, carrying a beautiful gold and ruby hilted sword in his hands. The scabbard itself was made of the finest leather and decorated in fabulous gold filigree. Estyr glanced down at the iron direwolf crown Gendry Baratheon had made, it was slick with moist from snowfall which only made it shine brighter. She brushed a finger across the two direwolf heads at the front of the crown, staring at the wolves with fascination.

"Pretty thing, isn't it?" Mira Forrester said, she had dismounted her horse and came beside Estyr. She wore brown riding pants, riding boots, a studded leather jerkin with House Forrester's sigil stamped in the centre — an ironwood tree with a longsword in its trunk. Mira Forrester was not an ugly woman, nor was she an outstanding beauty either. She had a rather plain face, with brown hair braided at the back and hazel coloured eyes that were kind to look upon.

Estyr looked up to those kind eyes with half a smile "Lady Mira! It's good to see you." Mira had been at the feast after the queen's coronation. She was kind and not wary or mistrustful of Estyr like most other Northerners were. Likely because of her time serving as a handmaiden to Margaery Tyrell. At the feast, Mira showed Estyr some dances she learned in court, which Estyr used with Talia and Gendry shortly after, though the wine Mira had given to Estyr made her attempts a clumsy and laughable failure.

"You've got quite a few tricks up your skirts, don't you Dornish girl?" Mira said.

She shrugged. "Not enough, I don't think. Is Talia here?"

Mira smiled affectionately. "She is back at Ironrath. She was asking after you too, you know?"

"Truly?"

"Truly. My sister is fond of dance and song. She was hoping to see you dance again someday."

"Maybe if I've had enough wine," Estyr said.

"You and me both!" Mira laughed. Suddenly her tone went serious. "I would enjoy this conversation, but it is not the day for that. Have you seen a beheading before, Estyr?"

"I've seen people burn alive," Estyr said frankly.

"A horrible way to go. But it will not make this easier to watch. And you must watch. Do not look away. The queen will know if you do." Mira placed a gentle hand on Estyr's shoulder and brought her gaze to the queen, Estyr followed her sight, looking upon the figures standing around the stump. 

They had stopped beside Robett Glover who sat on both knees with his snarling, contemptuous face and his neck exposed across the stump. Aberdale held the scabbard in both hands, offering the hilt of Widow's Wail to the queen. She pulled it out in one motion; it sang a high pitched resonance that echoed across the field and through the Wolfswood. She placed the point of the sword into the ground and took hold with both hands around its hilt. The sword's Valyrian steel blade glimmered in the grey light.

"I would hear your final words, my lord," the queen said. "Should you have them."

Robett Glover did not have anything to say. His head stayed still resting on the stump and breathed long, heavy breaths. The queen deemed that enough. The words she said next were like a prayer. She spoke them softly yet with a commanding tone. "In the sight of the Old Gods. By the laws of the First Men. I, Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North, do sentence you to die." As she began to lift the longsword, the wails of women filled the field with the pleas of mercy and cries to stop. The snow seemed to fall harder at that moment, swallowing the world with its frost.

The queen dropped Widow's Wail with a heavy swing. It cut deep through Robett Glover’s neck, but not deep enough. Despite the sharpness of the Valyrian steel, the queen did not seem to have enough strength to cut through Robett's thick neck. His head still hung by bone and tissue and his gurgling cries of agony echoed near as loud as the cries from Sybelle and Erena Glover. The queen wretched free Widow's Wail from his neck, and his blood spurt over her white dress. Estyr stared at the event, shocked. The choking sounds Lord Glover made, only uneased her more and the beautiful white gown the queen wore, now spattered with blood, seemed like a vision from an old story meant to scare children. Even Mira Forrester gaped at the queen with an unnerved expression.

Widow's Wail went high above the queen’s head once more, and she brought it down again, this time with a loud grunt. The second cut cleanly severed head from body, and it dropped to the snow ridden ground with a wet thud. Suddenly, Sybelle Glover leapt from her horse and pushed through the soldiers, shrieking and running towards the queen. Estyr gripped Starfall and started forward, but stopped when she saw Sybelle drop to her knees by Robett Glover's head. She picked it up in a shaking fit of tears and rocked back and forth, cradling his head like a baby. Her moment was short-lived, as men lifted her by her arms and Robett's head fell back to the sodden grass. 

Sybelle cried as she fought against the men's grip and spat at the queen. "You godless whore! I will pray every night that you die a painful death! I curse you Sansa Stark! I curse you and your foreign pet!"

Estyr’s heart skipped a beat. The queen was of the Old Gods and the blood of the First Men. She had protection. But Estyr knew Sybelle Glover was talking about her, _the foreign pet_ , and she knew the Old Gods had power, King Bran of the Six Kingdoms proved that, and they likely did not care for Estyr. Though none of this commotion seemed to bother the queen, she called for Gawen Glover, and the young man was slowly brought to her while others dragged back Sybelle, wailing over her husband's death. Estyr reminisced that a widow was made, on this frost fallen day.

"Killing his father in front of him, and making sure he sees. That's a message if I've ever seen one," Mira said from beside Estyr. 

“What’s the message?” Estyr asked.

“Don’t fuck with the Starks. Ha! As if the stories surrounding Ned Stark’s children aren’t enough.”

Estyr understood what she meant, likely better than anyone else. Though it seemed like a new thing to Gawen Glover as he walked towards Sansa, flanked by Stark soldiers, he stared with aching pain in his eyes at his father's headless body, now slumped on its side on the ground. Even as Gawen stopped before the queen, he continued to gaze at the corpse.

The queen rested her hands around Widow's Wail’s hilt. Its point in the ground. "Your father made his choice. Many poor choices." Estyr heard the queen say to Gawen. "You and your family needn't suffer for them. Do you understand?"

Gawen finally looked at the queen. "I do, Your Grace," he said with seldom interest.

"I hear you have a son," said the queen.

"I do. Jaren. He's six."

"Who is his mother?"

Gawen suddenly looked shy. "Lady Petra, of House Woods."

"Is he strong?"

"Yes, Your Grace. I know he will be a great warrior."

The queen lifted her chin. "Good to hear. Gawen you are now the Master of Deepwood Motte. I would take your oath and your son."

"What!" Gawen spat, shocked. "You can't!"

"I will. I just killed your father. It is only natural for you to want revenge or at least someone in your family would. Nor do I trust a Glover's oath alone. I will take your son, and he will return with me to Winterfell where he will be my ward. His life will keep your loyalty."

"And if I don’t stay loyal, you would kill him? He's only a child!"

"Then do your son, and I both a favour and do not betray me," the queen said grimly.

Gawen Glover glanced hesitantly at his mother and sister, then faced the queen again, with shifting, uncertain eyes. After a moment, he drew his sword, impaled its point into the grass and knelt on a knee.

"Gawen Glover," the queen began. "I ask you to pledge your loyalty once again to House Stark. To serve as our bannerman and come to our aid whenever called upon. Will House Glover stand beside House Stark, now and always?"

"Now and always," Gawen repeated. "I swear it, my queen." 

The queen offered him a smile as the last of the snowstorm slowed to a stop. "Stand, my lord. My armies will stay here and inside the castle until your son is brought to me. Take your father's body and bury him as you wish. One last thing. Those four guards, they are loyal men?”

“They are, Your Grace.”

“Loyal to your father. They will be going to the Wall.”

“Your Grace!”

“It is already done.”

Lord Gawen Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte, left contrite and the queen handed Widow's Wail back to her captain. She stood there speaking to Aberdale and Aubrey who had come forth at her request. They talked for a long moment, in low voices that Estyr could not hear. Suddenly, the queen placed an affection hand on both of them, then proceed towards Estyr and the rest.

She stopped in front of them and said sternly. "Lord Cerwyn, you are in command of the armies."

"An honour, Your Grace," he replied.

The queen faced Estyr, with an unmoving and indifferent gaze. "Ride with me back to our camp."

Estyr sat in front of the queen on Winterrose, as they rode through the damp and dense Wolfswood. Her guard, Fred, Walter, Aubrey, Alyn and Aberdale surrounded them, galloping through the undergrowth and by the thick trees. The fresh smell of pines and the wet earthy odour of the forest floor, filling Estyr's nose. By the time they exited the Wolfswood, the sun was far below the horizon, and the moon and stars shone brightly in a now clear sky. The armies camp had a smattering of soldiers left behind to guard it and the queen’s tent, which also acted as the command tent, was pitched in the centre of them all.

It was lit warmly by candles arrayed amongst tables and dressers. A large oak table with an oak chair sat at the back of the tent and a smaller desk off in the corner housed pitchers and cups on it. The queen walked towards it when they entered, past another table with several maps and small stone figures. She took a pitcher and poured a deep red coloured liquid into a cup. She turned the cup over and drank it all in one fell swoop. Estyr heard her take a deep breath after and watched her pour more of the liquid into two cups. 

"You know, I almost didn't go through with this," the queen admitted. "The night before you left Winterfell with Wylla Manderly I almost called an end to it. There were other ways to take Deepwood Motte. If something had of happened to you... you could have been found and captured, held prisoner. Killed. Even now I wonder why I put you through this. You're just a child and I made you infiltrate a castle, who does that? Arya will be furious with me."

"You didn't make me do anything. You asked for my help and I gave it. And I'm not a child... Your Grace," Estyr said.

The queen turned with a broad smile on her face. She came to Estyr carrying the two cups and handed her one. When Estyr took the cup from the queen, she noticed that her hands were shaking ever so slightly. "Why are your hands shaking?" Estyr asked her.

"It was… much more difficult to kill Robett than I had thought. Watching someone die, is not the same as doing it yourself, with your own hands. Even weeks of practicing beheading's with Aberdale wasn't enough." the queen told her with a stoic expression.

"Are you worried, about the curse Sybelle Glover gave you?" Estyr said, looking at the liquid with uncertainty. _Should I be?_

The queen shook her head. "I've always been cursed. Do you know, we killed seven men inside Deepwood and lost four of our own."

"That's quite good, considering."

"None would have been better," the queen regarded her a moment. "Drink, you've earned it. And I hear we shared a first on this day. Aberdale and Aubrey told me you had to kill someone too."

Estyr glanced at the wine and swirled it around in the cup. She took a long gulp. It was mild with a hint of sweetness and the strong flavour of grapes. Not like the summer wine she drank at the feast. She took another sip, then glanced up at the queen. "I killed… a boy."

"That's his blood on your face and clothes, isn't it?"

It was, Estyr could not have forgotten how Erik's blood gushed from his thigh and neck and covered her face, damped her clothes and drenched her hand. By now, the blood was dried and flaking. She nodded solemnly to the queen.

"He was a boy, that would have killed you," said the queen.

"He was my friend, and I killed him. I think he was calling to me, I think… he might've—”

"Don't think of what could have been or what he might've done. This will only lead you to more pain. I've killed before, but never with my own hands. We share this today, and truth be told if Arya were here, I would have let her kill Robett. She was always better at handling those sort of things. But we have to do things ourselves sometimes, and we cannot live with regrets or what-ifs."

Estyr sniffled sadly and together she drank more wine with the queen. Though when the cup parted from the queen's lips her stoic, hard face of the Queen in the North, seemed to break down and become the gentler and warmer face of Sansa Stark, Arya Stark's beloved sister and Estyr's protector and friend. Sansa smiled and placed her cup on a nearby table as she walked off towards a basin of water in the corner of the tent. She returned with a damp white cloth and sat on her knees in front of Estyr.

"Do you know why I had to kill Lord Glover?" Sansa asked her softly.

"Your way, is the old way?" said Estyr though unsure of herself.

Sansa placed a gentle hand on Estyr's cheek. " _Our_ way is the old way. You may not be a Stark, but Winterfell is your home now, and you are apart of our family. You've shown the North a great deal with your work in Deepwood, and one day you may do even more. You may lead men, and they will look to you for strength, for guidance, and they will all judge you. If you are in a situation where the honour of you or your family is questioned, you will need to decide on whether to show mercy or to show the sword. I offered Robett Glover a chance to live his life on the Wall, and he rejected it. I showed him mercy. Then I showed him the sword. When the day comes for you, you owe it to the man you kill, to hear his final words and to look him in the eye when you kill him. Even if Arya killed in my place, I would still look the man in the eye and hear what he has to say. I did this with Lord Baelish, Lord Bolton and Lord Glover. I dread the day when I need to do it again, but it's what we must do. Understand?"

She sniffled and nodded at Sansa, giving her a small smile. Sansa lifted the hand that held the cloth and gently wiped Estyr's face, cleaning off the dried blood, dirt and sweat. Estyr fixated herself on Sansa's blue eyes as the events of the day raced through her mind. Sansa brought the cloth down to Estyr's hands, wiping from them carefully, the grime and blood. Once she had finished, she dropped the now dirty fabric on the ground and held onto Estyr's hands with her own, tenderly caressing them. Her hands were warm, soft and caring like a mother's. Estyr felt wetness in her eyes, the day's heavy toll coming upon her. She sobbed hard and threw herself at Sansa and wrapped her arms around her neck. Sansa did not attempt to stop her but returned the embrace, enveloping her arms tightly around Estyr's little waist. Estyr cradled her head in Sansa's neck, and she cried and cried. And for a moment, she thought she heard Sansa cry too.


	5. The Sister of Salt and Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is west of Westeros may be a question the crew of Grey Wind do not wish to answer, though it's captain guides her ship west, ever stalwart.

Tessa Fairmanne rolled the small toy ship in her palm as the real ship she stood on rocked across the water. The wooden, toy ship — that once belonged to Sera Fairmanne — was all Tessa had left of her sister, it was all she had left of her family. She lifted her light-blue eyes, wiped her fair hair from them and fixated her gaze toward the Forecastle of Grey Wind where her captain stood. The captain had a hand on the wooden rail, another on the hilt of Needle on her hip as she stared west, to the vast never-ending sea. The iron studs on her black, leather doublet gleamed in the sunlight, and her dark hair was unmoving, tied into a tight bun behind her head. Tessa knew the captain was gazing beyond the waters, where, in the distance, dark clouds grew ominously and furiously. Though, those clouds on the horizon sent fear through Tessa, as they did not seem like regular storm clouds. They were thick, constantly rolling around each other, and every few seconds, silver flashes of light lit them like lightning lit the skies at night. But what's worse, is that the skies above the clouds were as red as blood.

Discontent with the situation, Tessa felt her stomach churn with anxiety and the scraps of old dried bread and hard cheese she broke her fast with did not help. She returned the toy ship to her pants pocket, gone were the days of dresses, Tessa had not worn one since they left the Targaryen Islands, instead opting for the much more comfortable and functional, white tunic, brown cotton pants and boots. Tessa made her way towards the Forecastle to the stairs that led below deck. Grey Wind was a voyager ship built for fast sailing across the seas. It carried a deep hull with three levels of decks — The Main Deck, where the three-mast of the vessel stood tall, from the stern to the bow. The stern held the Captain's Cabin, below the helm. At the bow, on the upper deck of the Forecastle, was a makeshift rookery, where two large cages held six ravens between them. Stepping below deck was the Crew Quarters where fur rolled beds laid or hammocks hung and a large table nailed to the floor, for seating and eating. Littered against the walls, resting in chest or hanging on racks nailed to the ships inner walls, were the extra weapons for the crew, should they need them outside of their own personal weapons. Swords, spears, longbows and crossbows. The final deck below them all was the Stores, containing the cable store. Timbers, nails and supplies for repairs. Barrels of foods, salts and spices. Freshwater, ale, wine, or whatever food and drink they had left for their journey.

Tessa entered the Crew Quarters where she found, sitting at an oaken table on the port side of Grey Wind, sat Lyno Alestor, Pratt, Elyas and Barton. Lyno sat fiddling with the tip of a dagger, cleaning his fingernails with its sharp point. Alora stood over them, watching Elyas and Barton play cyvasse using old and crude pieces that once belonged to Barton's grandfather. Pratt sat at the end of the table, drinking from a cup, uninterested in the game.

Tessa came to their table, staring at the game pieces. "Who's winning?" she asked no one in particular.

"Barton," Alora answered. She was the ship's cook and dressed, as usual, in a dull white and stained garb that covered her ample bosom and big waist. "It's always Barton."

"His bastard catapults took down all my dragons," Elyas complained, looking at Tessa as he did. "This game is bull. If a city like King's Landing that was surrounded by scorpions can't take down a dragon, what good could a fucking catapult do?"

She shrugged. "I didn't make the rules, Elyas." She took a seat and the end of the table. "Do we have any food Alora? I'm quite hungry."

"Aye, we've got some left. But ya gonna have to wait like everyone else," Alora answered.

"Are we still rationing?"

"Course we're still rationing girl," Pratt said harshly, finishing a gulp from his cup that Tessa assumed was either ale or wine. "We've been at sea for near twelve months with no land in sight, and almost all our stocks are gone. Now we're sailing into a fucking red storm, the likes of which I ain't ever seen. It's gonna be the end of us, I know it! But the _captain_ is set in her ways." Pratt was the oldest in the crew, and his face showed it, wrinkled with time and weathered from his years as a sailor, his old face was round and pock-marked finished with thin grey-black hair and grey, uneasy eyes. Like most of the others in the crew, he wore a basic cotton garb.

"And have you taken your complaints _to_ the captain, my friend?" Lyno said cooly, his legs stretched out before him, underneath the table. Lyno was a Braavossi, and like other Braavosi, he wore flamboyant colours. Today he wore a purple velvet tunic, with a padded leather vest over it and dark woollen trousers. His scalp was always hair-free, and the sharp features of his face finished with brown beady eyes and thin lips that seemed to smirk constantly.

"Well, no," Pratt replied nervously. "But we ain't seen no birds around, and even the fish don't bite. They know not to swim in these waters. The little fairmaid here needs to be told what's what."

 _Fairmaid_ was the nickname Tessa had earned from Pratt and many others in the crew when — one night after she had drunk a bit too much wine as they anchored just off Visenya's Island — she foolishly admitted to still being a maiden. To her disgust and regret, many that night offered to break her maidenhead before they set out on their journey proper. The Northmen, Holt, Haren and Wyll even said it would bring the whole crew good luck, and when she rejected them, they continued to try and woo her by calling her _Fairmaid_ instead of Fairmanne. As if that would have won her over. When the captain found out, she punished the three men by having them on Head cleaning duties for a whole month, a task no one looked forward to. The Head of the ship was below the bowsprit at the very front of the vessel and it was where the crew did their business. It smelled like a dozen men had emptied their bowels, and it's wooden decking, when not cleaned, was covered in urine and other distasteful residue Tessa did not like to think of. 

Since the day of the captain’s punishment to the three Northmen, none of them bothered Tessa again with wishes of breaking her maidenhead. Though Pratt was not as shy, continually making a crude comment here or a pass there. Still, Tessa only saw him as old and harmless. But she did wonder why the three Northmen were so easy for the captain to tame. They, and the other Northmen and Valemen, seemed to follow her every word without question, regardless of what it was. Tessa suspected it might have something to do with them calling the captain, the _Hero of Winterfell._

"Bastard!" Elyas screamed as he threw an elephant piece to the ground.

Barton laughed. "Why do you even play me, E?"

"Cause one day I'm going to beat you, Bart. You smug prick!" replied Elyas.

Tessa smiled at them. Elyas and Barton were old friends who used to work as shipbuilders, and no amount of harsh words between the two could do any damage to their friendship. They, along with Pratt, Alora and Tessa herself, were the only crew of Grey Wind from King's Landing. Lyno Alestor was a Braavosi and, as her First Hand, was the closest to the captain. Gidden, Haren, Holt, Symon, Wyll and Mikel were the Northmen. Big men and most of whom were former soldiers. They did not seem to talk to the King's Landing folk much. Rowen, Ossy and Donnel were from the Vale and seemed to get along fine with the Northmen and had no problem with talking to Tessa or Pratt or anyone else. In fact, the only person on the entire ship who did the least amount of talking was the captain. And for the longest time, Tessa wanted to change that. She desired to speak to the captain, to get to know her, to find out what made her tick, though the captain seemed to hold things close to her chest.

"Fairmaid," Pratt called, catching Tessa's attention from across the table. "What's say you and I head down to the Stores and break open some of that ale the captain's been holding. And maybe I can break something of yours as well," he said flashing his broken front teeth at her.

Tessa cringed. Pratt was bolder when he knew the captain was not in earshot, though that boldness today, departed as quickly as it came, as the captain had somehow appeared beside the table without a sound to betray her presence. She had a habit of doing this, mystically emerging right beside people without a sound; some of the crew believed it to be magic.

"Captain!" Alora said with a startled tone. "Come to watch Elyas fail at cyvasse?" 

The captain did not answer her. She stood as still as death, staring daggers at Pratt. Tessa saw the apple in his throat bob about as he swallowed hard, and everyone glanced between the two tensely waiting for what would happen. Finally, the captain sauntered around the table and stood right beside where Pratt sat. 

He swallowed hard again and let go of his cup. "Captain," he said, trying to feign cheerfulness.

The captain stepped closer to him, so close it was intimidating to even look at, and it only seemed to make Pratt uncomfortable. Then the captain placed a small hand on Pratt's shoulder, grasping it firmly. "If you touch Tessa," the captain said methodically. "I will make a eunuch out of you." 

Tessa smiled as once more Pratt swallowed hard. "I won't captain, I swear it," he said. Tessa was twenty, a year older than the captain who was, in truth, the youngest person on the ship, though the captain had a command and presence of someone much older, and Pratt knew well the danger of not listening to her. Shortly after they had begun rationing food, Pratt became furious with the idea, swearing black and blue that it would do them no good and that they should return to Westeros before they go any further. The captain chose to ignore him, but day in and day out, Pratt would complain and spread further turmoil and foul words, even in the presence of the captain. One day on the main deck, it got to the point that Pratt chose to disobey an order from the captain, challenging her that he will not follow any more of her orders until she turns Grey Wind around. The captain did not answer or scold him. She simply stared at him for such a long time, it made everyone who witnessed it uncomfortable until she left that scene without saying a word.

However, on the very next day, the captain asked the men of the crew to help her practice her sword work, they spent the better part of the day clashing steel together joyfully and sharing stories of battles long gone or wonderous sword fights they had seen. Tessa stood by Alora, watching the men and the captain duel each other, though never really being serious about it. Near the end of it all, the captain approached Pratt and asked him to join. He had sulked alone watching the others, but he was the oldest in the crew and likely the most experienced at fighting on a ship, what with being a former sailor in the Lannister navy and Tessa expected that the captain wanted to see his worth. Pratt accepted the captain's offer, no doubt, thinking he had the opportunity to embarrass her. But as they stood apart in the centre of the Main Deck, prepared to duel, the captain removed the leather belt from her waist that held her sheathed swords and threw it to the side, accosting Pratt unarmed. Pratt demanded to know what she was thinking of doing, saying that she needed a sword for them to duel. The captain simply answered: "Don't worry. I'll have a sword in my hands before the end." 

They took to their fight, and Tessa quickly gathered that Pratt had little chance. The captain moved faster than Tessa's eyes could keep up, she dodged Pratt's attacks swiftly, spun around him as if in a dance, and kicked at his legs, toying with him. Finally, after Pratt swung a frustrated attack with his sword, the captain moved in and disarmed him in a flash, used his own sword to cut him across his breast, then knocked him hard to the floor. She kicked brutally at his hand that tried to grasp at the cut on his chest, and then the captain laid a foot directly into Pratt's face, smashing his front teeth and causing his nose to bleed profusely. It was cruel to witness, but Tessa knew what the captain was doing, this was no longer practice for her, perhaps it never was. It was a lesson to Pratt and the entire crew.

The captain threw Pratt's sword on the deck and stepped beside him, looking down at his bleeding, sad slump with a scowl on her face. "I was hoping you could have given me some good practice. I am disappointed. If you no longer have faith in our journey, then jump in the sea and swim home. Find out how far your cowardice will take you. If you choose to stay on _my_ ship, you follow _my_ orders. If you ever disobey me again, I will drown you in the Head and let the shit-water clog your lungs."

Tessa had the duty of healing Pratt's cut, cleaning it with boiled wine and delicately stitching the wound. It was not deep, and it did not stop Pratt from lamenting on what had happened, wondering how in the seven hells the captain could move like that. When Tessa could not answer those questions, he would result to his usual attempts at wooing her, even as she was helping him. Tessa took a bit of pleasure in the spasms of pain Pratt would suddenly have when she made her stitching needle dig deeper into his skin when his words became a bit too crude for her liking.

Now she felt slightly guilty for the pleasure she took in the discomforted look that graced Pratt, as they sat at the table in the crew quarters. Pratt would not disobey the captain again, not after what happened in their little duel months ago, though Tessa could not help feel sorry for the aged man, as his face showed genuine fear while the captain held a firm grip on his shoulder. Finally, the captain let go of her grasp, and her face relaxed. She turned to Grey Wind's First Mate, "Lyno, I need you on the helm with me."

"Just so, captain," Lyno said, shooting up from his chair.

And just as quickly, Tessa shot up from her seat. "May I join you?" she asked the captain. Perhaps this was an opportunity to speak to her, Tessa thought, even if it was only regarding the voyage. The captain queried her with a look, and Tessa knew she would refuse her. Yet, to her surprise, the captain nodded. And together, the three of them ascended the decks of Grey Wind.

When they stood together in front of the helm, the captain's small hands gently guiding the wheel, they all peered to the clouds in the distance with the red skies above them. "What do you think?" The captain asked.

"Heavy, those clouds are. And that sky of blood grants no welcome," Lyno said as he closed the monocular in his palms. "No matter how far north or south we've travelled, those clouds have always laid to our west. Time is not on our side, captain. We must head through the storm, or sail back home. Just so."

"Grey Wind is our home. We aren't turning back." said the captain sternly. "How long until we reach the storm?"

"We've had strong winds. After noon, I'd say"

"Prepare the crew. Get them to take the ravens below deck, lock storage, set the sails and rigging and put everything loose in chests or in the Stores."

"Just so, captain."

"Should we not tell someone?" Tessa spoke up. She had been quiet the whole time, opting to take in all she could rather than contribute. Yet she could not shake the ill feeling she had when she saw those dark clouds rolling beyond them. "Perhaps we should send a raven to Westeros, is all I mean. Let them know where we are, what we're heading into?"

The captain eyed her knowingly, then turned back to Lyno. "Make sure three of the ravens have eaten and are ready to fly, then prepare my cabin — ink and parchment."

"To whom will you be writing?" Lyno asked.

"I won't be. Tessa will be writing to Winterfell and King’s Landing. She is now my Steward."

Lyno regarded Tessa with a smile, gave a curt bow to the captain and rushed down the stairs from the helm to complete his orders. Tessa gazed at the captain uncertainly but with a spark of conviction. Up until now, all she was on the ship was a glorified healer that offered little else but a pleasant sight for the men in the crew, as she saw it. She knew very little about ships and how to properly sail them. Ships were always Sera's and their father's area of knowledge and even with the small amounts of training and advice the men gave her it seemed to just fly over her head. Now, however, she was suddenly named the captain’s Steward? She did not know what to think, and if she was honest with herself, she did not even know what a Steward did. But she felt pride in taking that title regardless. Though, it had been a long time since she had put ink to parchment, since before her uncle had died. But she remembered the words true enough, although she did not remember ever telling the captain this fact.

"How did you know I could write?" Tessa asked the captain, eying her cautiously.

"You said your uncle taught you healing, and that must be true because I've seen you set bones, and mend cuts. I'd guess your uncle was wise enough to teach you to read and write as well. Am I wrong?”

Tessa shook her head with a smile, "No, it was the first thing he taught my sister and I. Then came other lessons. He did not have many links on his maesters chain, but he knew healing well. Captain, I have to ask. What does a Steward do?"

“You’ll do everything that I am already tired of doing. Count the food and supplies we have in the Stores. Manage the crew’s rations. Write letters, take care of the ravens. Make sure my bedding is clean. Make sure no one enters my cabin and anything else I ask of you.”

Tessa smiled. “I’ll do my best, captain.”

"I know,” the captain replied assuredly. “Your uncle, what lord did he serve?"

"Ser Quincy, and sometimes my uncle's brother... my father."

The captain shot her a look. "You're high born?"

Tessa gave her a sheepish grin. "Not really, my captain. I lived with my sister, father and mother in a small keep that Ser Quincy Cox had granted father for his great work as a sailor. That's what he said anyway, but I honestly think it was because he favoured mother. Uncle served Ser Quincy, and a few others in Saltpans."

"What were you doing in King's Landing then? Saltpans was far from the Dragon Queen's war."

"We had not seen the dragons, so we all thought they were just stories the Dragon Queen made up to scare us," Tessa told it, as she fiddled with her hands. "And father, nor Ser Quincy, did not wish to face Queen Cersei's wrath. So when she called her banners, we were amongst those that rode to the Capital. Father might have to go to battle, we thought, but we also hoped King’s Landing would be the safest place with all the wars happening. We were wrong. The battles kept happening. The dragons were real, and thousands died even before they burned the city. We prayed every night for the people of Westeros, and an end to the slaughter."

"Never came?" The captain ventured. "And I see that you still pray." Tessa nodded her head, full of sorrow. There was a hint of truth to the captain's words. Prayer to the Seven was a habit Tessa's mother had ingrained into her and Sera. It was a calming ritual she did before she slept and sometimes during the day as she held on tight to Sera's burned toy ship. "Why still pray when they bring you nothing?" Asked the captain finally.

"They brought me you," Tessa blurted back, almost unintentionally. "I prayed and prayed with Sera for someone to help us. And you came through the dust and fire and brought us from that falling tower."

"I did nothing. People still died."

"I didn't." Tessa could see that day now as distinct as ever. The crumbling red tower she hid in with her sister Sera, and others just trying to survive. Tessa and Sera held tight onto each other, Sera cried, calling for their father who the Dothraki had cut down moments before. Tessa held Sera close and whispered into her ear, while the dragon roared in the falling skies. "Pray with me, little sister,” she whispered as Sera wept. “Pray like mother did. Someone will come! This will all be over soon."

A vast explosion shook the earth, and another building outside fell with the added hammering of a descending bell. Then from the dust and ashes came a small woman, dressed in ash-covered brown leather and two swords at her waists. Tessa did not know who she was at that time, not until later did she learn that it was Arya Stark, the war hero and future Captain of the Grey Wind. Arya Stark rushed into the building and knelt by a short-haired woman and her child.

"You can't stay here," she said. "You have to keep moving."

"We can't go out there!" Spat a scared woman.

"You have to," Arya Stark replied.

"Everyone out there is dead!"

A boom echoed in the distant city, and Arya gazed around at the shocked and frightened people. "If you stay here, you'll die!" Her voice was thick with command. She stood and lifted the short-haired woman by the arm. "Follow me. Follow me!"

So they did. Tessa and Sera were the last to follow, and the shaking booms rocked the earth and screams of people filled the city streets. Though all those that had followed Arya Stark soon had to flee, as Dothraki galloped through the street, they stepped out to. In the chaos, Sera had become lost in the crowd, and though Tessa wailed and cried for her sister, she had to force herself to turn and run from the Dothraki and the oncoming dragon, or face slaughter. She ran down an alley beside the building she had just cowered in as it began to crumble and fall in on itself. Ultimately, the dragon's fiery roar came down and in its wake, silence.

At the end, when the slaughter was over, Tessa found her little sister. Her small body limp, charred and lifeless. Melted to her tiny hands was the toy ship their father had made for her. "I want to go on a ship like father! To sail the waves and see all the beasts in the oceans!" The memory of her little sister's sweet voice and dreams brought a sad smile to Tessa's face. She felt the warm tears slide down her cheek; she wiped them away and looked at the captain, Captain Arya Stark. Many people may have died on the day the dragon fire came to King's Landing, including Sera, she would never sail the seas. And it was because of Tessa that she was gone. Tessa was supposed to look after her, to protect her. But she lost her. She failed her little sister. She hoped sailing across the sea with her sister’s toy ship would bring her sister some peace, in the land beyond.

She felt for her sister's toy ship in her pocket and gripped it tightly. "The Gods brought me you, and I am grateful," Tessa Fairmanne said to Captain Arya. She was alive because of Arya, and that had to be enough.

Arya offered no words that would betray her thoughts or emotions, her hands glided across the wheel of Grey Wind, turning it ever so slightly.

"Do you pray, captain?" Tessa asked, trying to break the silence.

"You don't pray to death," said Arya, coldly. "You fight it."

"Death is your God? There are some who pray to the Stranger."

"And there are some who say we live inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant named _Macumber_."

"With everything you've seen, captain, you doubt that?" Tessa replied with a smirk, though Arya did not concede a smile to creep on her own face. Tessa opted to move the subject on. She contemplated the rolling clouds they sailed closer towards then spoke up once more. "What do you think is beyond those clouds?"

"More water," Captain Arya said plainly.

Tessa allowed a chuckle. "I think there will be land: great green plains and vast forests. Beautiful waterfalls and gracious animals."

"You remind me of my sister when she was younger," Arya said. "Is that what you _think_ we'll find? Or what you _pray_ we do?"

Tessa thought on that for a moment, then once again turned to Captain Arya with a smile. "Both."

Arya smirked faintly. "I don't have much use for prayers. But I do need you to write those letters to Westeros. They aren't going to write themselves."

"What do I write?"

"Lyno will show you."

* * *

When they passed through the threshold of the storm, it was much worse than Tessa, or anyone else could have imagined. The wind lifted the seas as high as sixty feet or more, and there were several times Tessa thought Grey Wind would not survive the next massive wave that came towards them, she feared their ship would capsize in the middle of this unknown sea and its ferocious storm. Thankfully though, that did not seem to happen, so far at least.

Tessa held on for her life, grasping as tight as she could to the thick rigging rope that led up to the centre mast. As the skies pelted them with heavy rain, lightning that cracked through the clouds all around them, and rolling thunder that never seemed to end, she tried to gaze across the ship at where the other crew members were. The thick mist of heavy rain blocked most of her vision, but she witnessed Alora, grasping at the archway leading into the Forecastle. She spotted Elyas and Barton who had tied themselves to the centre mast, hoping to wait out the storm. Donnel and Rowen pulled hard at rigging, trying to manage the heavy, direwolf emblazoned sails. Standing high on the helm, grasping at the wheel was the captain and Lyno, navigating the ship through the chaos.

Lightning exploded around them once more, and Tessa shook with fear, her wet hands clung the rope desperately, and she wrapped her arms around the rigging, trying to get a better grip. When she was as safe as she could have been, she dared to look up towards the harrowing skies. Rain smashed into her eyes, and she attempted to gaze at the thick, black clouds above them. Though nothing seemed to pass through their darkness, Tessa could spot the blood-red skies that lay high above the storm clouds, and she thought anxiously on what sort of hellish magic could have crafted something like this. Tessa lowered her head down, her body shaking with wet-cold and terror, and she pulled out Sera’s toy ship from her pocket and gripped it tightly. _Gods protect us_. She began a silent prayer as the skies above tore at the sea. _Lead us from this storm, from this awful hell! We are all good people, help us to land so we may continue living and serving you!_

Grey Wind sailed into another coming wave. This one seemed taller and wilder than the last. As the direwolf crested ship lurched forward into the hurtling water, Tessa felt sudden vertigo it gave her when the ship's hull began to tilt against the onslaught. She held on as tight as she could, but an eruption of thunder seemed to strike right behind her, and she jolted with hysteria; her wet handed grip on the rigging came loose. Tessa fell hard to the ship's wooden decking and slid across the vessel to its port side. This ship's heavy tilt on the wave made her crash and slide across the deck. She would not let go of her sister’s toy ship, but she tried desperately with her free hand to grasp on to something to save her.

Elyas held out a hand though his reach was too short and having tied himself to the mast meant he could not jump to her aid. Tessa slid helplessly further across the ship, ever closer to the edge. She screamed for help, fearing she would fall through the gap in the rail and into the dark waves. But then, callous hands grabbed her suddenly and hurled her to her feet in one motion. It was Pratt. The old man grinned at her and laughed as he held her tightly. Tessa looked at him dizzy and scared, but thankful. She wrapped her arms around him, never wishing to let go.

Pratt hugged her back, but quickly pushed her off. "Ya like this Fairmaid, eh?" He said with a loud hysterical laugh. "This is sailing! Ha, ha!" Tessa noticed that Pratt had a thick rope tied around his waist, the other end led to the Forecastle. It allowed him to move around the ship without fear of falling overboard, or pull himself back to safety should he slip on the water covered deck.

For the remainder of the harrowing journey, Tessa remained by Pratt's side, and he held her close willingly. Pratt seemed to laugh and smile the whole time, once he had questioned heading into this storm and seemed almost afraid of it, yet now he welcomed it like an old friend. Grey Wind careened and croaked across the waves. The foresail tore open, the rails on the starboard shattered against the weight of water. Silver lightning shot down from the black clouds near enough that it would have hit them were the ship only a few inches closer. And the blood-red skies ominously drifted above them, sending this onslaught of a storm that Tessa thought would never end. Though it did.

Tessa and Pratt stepped out timidly from the Forecastle, as the rain slowed down. The black clouds and red sky above them still sent thunder and cracks of lightning. The golden sun, however, seemed to shine through the thinning clouds to the west. Eventually, as they continued to drift aimlessly, the rain ceased, the clouds broke apart, and the sun beamed its warmth upon Grey Wind. Tessa and Pratt walked out to the Main Deck, others — such as Alora, Wyll, Mickel and Ossy followed them. Rowen picked himself up from the decking. Barton began to untie himself and Elyas from the centre mast, and even the captain walked down the steps from the helm, gazing with a smile at the clearing skies. All of them had become drenched in rainwater. Some such as Rowen, Pratt and Tessa herself had small bumps and cuts from tumbling around during the storm, but they were all alive.

"We made it lads!" Pratt bellowed with a laugh, and he picked Tessa up by her waist and swung her about him like a feather. The others cheered and whooped, Tessa giggled with joy, she even spotted the captain giving the crew a rare, toothy smile. 

Something else above them seemed to join in the commotion. The crew came to silence when they heard the chirping and gentle cawing song. Tessa followed the eyes of the others, and she saw what she thought to be the greatest gift the gods could have given them, they had answered Tessa's prayers. As flying high above them, seemingly leading Grey Wind to land was:

"Seabirds!" Rowen called joyfully. "There's land nearby, we've found land!"

"We fucking made it!" Elyas yelled, and he grabbed Alora and began to dance with her to the song of happiness. Tessa joined in and jigged along Grey Wind's deck. She moved from Pratt and spun to Rowen, he grabbed and sent her on a twirl causing her soaked cotton tunic to flick water everywhere, but no one cared. Tessa laughed with delight, and she continued to spin herself towards the captain, who was still smiling at them all. She wanted to grab Arya and hold her tight, she wanted to dance with her and tell her she had prayed for this moment and the Gods responded.

But as Tessa moved toward Captain Arya, the sea on the ship's port side began to tear open. Tessa stopped herself when she noticed it, and she cautiously stepped towards the edge of Grey Wind, her heart quickened at the sight, the joy she felt not seconds ago was suddenly replaced with another swell of anxious fear. 

She felt Arya step beside her, staring at the water. "What is that?" Tessa asked her.

"Nothing good," replied Arya calmly.

Tessa looked back at the ocean and wondered what could be happening. Was it a whirlpool? Her father had told her of such things. But whirlpool's were supposed to twist the sea to its centre, like a puddle of water going down a small hole. Yet, the ocean before her seemed to suck inward, as if something was surfacing from it. And something did come out.

First came its bow. The long point pierced through the water, pointing upward. It led the prow that surfaced next, with a figurehead of thick man-beast gesticulating forward with one hand. The rest of the vessel shot out of the ocean depths in one swift motion. What had come from the shifting waters was a ship twice the size of Grey Wind, with a hull of eerie grey-green timber. Green seaweed and flailing fish fell from its mast and slid from its decking as the ship rocked on the water. It was four-masted with closed sails, but they quickly unravelled opened to reveal black velvet sails, wet with seawater, but no sigil or marking of any kind seemed to adorn them. The ship settled itself, then suddenly on its starboard side, the timber of the hull started to leaver open, giving access to its inside, though Tessa could not see into the ships hull. Instead, large circular iron figures were pushed through the fourteen holes of the ship. They looked heavy and dangerous. The circular tips, flanged at the end before its long steel neck disappeared into the darkness of the hull. The ominous iron that now protruded from the enemy ship, pointed directly across to Grey Wind's port. 

Tessa grabbed Captain Arya's hand, but before she could even speak, the world came alight with deafening blasts. The grey-green warship that surfaced from beneath the sea began a barrage of fire upon Grey Wind that tore the smaller ship asunder. The booming sounds that came from the ship, mad Tessa and Arya duck helplessly below the rail covering their head from the iron balls that shot out and shattered into the timber of Grey Wind

Arya spun around on her heels. "Lyno!" She screamed over the chaotic fire. "Man the helm! Hard to starboard! Get us out of here!" Arya rose to her feet and spun back around once more, facing the crew all cowering as low as they could. "Get your weapons! Longbows and crossbows! Fire all!"

Tessa held onto the railing, looking in awe at the captain standing high as splinters of wood and iron shot around her then the captain glanced down at her. "That includes you, steward!" She bellowed, and she lifted Tessa with a hand and drew her shortsword, Needle, with her other. 

As Grey Wind began to shift to starboard, away from the assailing vessel, two iron balls linked together with a heavy chain smashed into Grey Wind's centre mast. At first, it was just one, then several more came, and it split the centre mast apart, causing it to fall right upon Tessa and the captain. Captain Arya pushed Tessa back hard, and she fell to the deck with a firm blow, as the mast crashed down inches before her. Tessa crawled back, desperately trying to escape the onslaught, though it would not end for her. Thick ropes tied to the end of three-pronged hooks flew from the enemy warship. Dozens and dozens of them flung onto Grey Wind, attaching themselves to the splintered decking or rails, or whatever else they could. With them came heavy wooden planks that fell between the two ships creating makeshift bridges.

Men came running across the planks or climbed across the ropes as a monkey would climb across a branch. They carried in their hand's swords of iron that curved at the very tip and had serration on both edges of the blade. Others had short spears, with tips of pure black which no light seemed to reflect off. Or wooden clubs, flails and cudgels that also had the pitch-black stone on their bludgeoning points. All the attacking men wore an array of mismatched leathers and cotton, soaked to their cores, torn cut and clinging with seaweed, crustaceans and dripping salt-water. But what Tessa found most frightening about these men, is that their skin was as pale as milk.

The attackers screamed words to each other in a foreign language and yelled joyfully as they boarded Grey Wind. Tessa held tight to the toy ship and lifted her shaking body to its feet. She spun around and ran toward the Forecastle, desperate to get below deck. A pale man jumped from the Forecastle's upper deck and landed in front of her, and she slid to a stop. He gnawed yellow and black teeth, then hit her hard with a backhand. Tessa fell to the deck with a crash, and her sister's toy ship dropped from her fingers. It collapsed to the floor and slid further away. Tessa crawled towards it, trying to grasp it with her fingers, but the little wooden toy slipped further and further from her. Then a sudden iron ball blasted through the decking beside her and launched the pale man that attacked, flying. Tessa rolled away from the blast as splinters of wood, cut her arm and face, she cried in pain but rolled back looking frantically for Sera's little ship, but it had gone. All she had left of her sister, of her family, was taken from her, shot into the ocean depths. Tessa cried out with disbelief, her hand grasping at nothing but air. More and more pale men dropped onto Grey Wind, and Tessa forced her weak legs to lift her shaking body. She ran once more across Grey Wind's main deck tears swimming down her cheeks and fear flooding her heart. Tessa fled to a place she did not know, but only hoped to find safety.

As she sprinted, she beheld Pratt slamming his sword into two assailants. Barton and Elyas fought together. Barton had netting that he had wrapped around an enemy, and Elyas cut him with his sword. Rowen fought hard with a black-tipped spear he stole from an attacker. And even Alora fought the enemies, wildly swinging a broken piece of timber railing at two of them, but one man simply knocked the timber away, and he stuck his serrated blade into Alora's stomach. Alora grasped at the wound in her belly, she choked and coughed blood, and died before she even hit the deck. Tessa cried out when she saw it, but she did not stop running, she could not.

She rushed through as Grey Wind's rocked against the onslaught. The enemy warship gave another barrage of iron that blew apart the decking beyond Tessa, and she overcame the gap with an adrenaline-fuelled jump. After she landed, she slammed open the door into the Captain's Cabin and ran in, closing the door hard behind her. Tessa spotted the captain's oaken table at the other end of the cabin, and she cowered low against it, holding her knees close to her face and covered her ears with the palms of her hands that did little to block out the booming noise of battle outside the cabin, and the screams that followed. 

Tessa wept and moved her hands together, held them close to her face and prayed aloud. "Mother protect me, and the Captain too! Cast your protection on her, make her safe as you did for me! And find my sister's little ship, guide it back to me, I beg you! Warrior, shield Grey Wind and her crew. Make their words strike true and send these demons back to the depths! Father, judge us not for—” As if in retaliation for the prayers, a bang echoed close outside and half a heartbeat later the walls of the captain's cabin shattered open as the iron ball burst through, destroying chest and drawers. Sending wood, silverware, parchment and clothing chaotically around the room. 

Tessa screamed and held herself tighter; thankfully no debris appeared to hit her. Though her gratefulness could not last, as the door to the cabin burst open, and stood in its threshold was one of the attackers. His skin, pale like the rest and he dressed in worn leather — wet with blood. He gave Tessa a wicked smile and spoke a flurry of quick and gravelly words to her that she did not understand, then he stepped into the cabin raising his club above his head, the club had a top finished with more of that black stone that seemed to swallow light.

Tessa held out a hand, crying. "Please, no!" She pleaded. "Don't hurt me, please!" The pale man spoke more strange words as he approached and readied his club to kill her. But instead of striking Tessa, he fell to his knees, wailing with agony.

Captain Arya Stark stood behind him, her face a grimace of anger and fearlessness. Her shortsword, Needle, held out beside her after a successful slash. The iron-studded, black doublet she wore was slashed at the arms and chest, though no blood came from them. Her dark hair had fallen from its tight bun and was let out wild and loose over her shoulders and down the nape of her neck. Arya looked wild and ferocious. She stepped beside the pale man and pierced her blade through his throat, the man gurgled and cried out. She withdrew it, and he grasped uselessly at the new hole, clearly in desperate pain. But Arya looked at him strangely, and soon enough Tessa saw what she did. Despite the deep cuts Arya had given the man behind his knees, and the new hole she gave his neck, there was no blood. None seemed to flow from any puncture or cut; the only thing that escaped was air. Arya drew Needle up lightning-quick and thrust its sharp point where the man's heart should be, and almost immediately, his wailing stopped, and he seemed to die as he fell to the floor.

Tessa gazed at him with horror. "They don't bleed. Why do they not bleed?"

"I don't know," said Arya calmly. 

"Are they... dead men? Like you fought at Winterfell?"

Arya shook her head this time. "No. They talk, they feel pain, they fight like they've had training. The dead I fought were not like this. These men... they're not dead, they're just... not truly men."

"Seven save us," Tessa breathed.

"Your Gods have no power here," Arya stepped over the dead body, taking her place right in front of Tessa. "Get up and fight."

"They'll kill me!" Tessa objected.

"They'll kill us all. Make them suffer for it!" Arya sheathed Needle, grabbed Tessa by her collar and hauled her to her feet, then took Tessa's right hand and placed in it, her beautiful dagger. Tessa only ever saw it in passing on Arya's hip, now it gleamed at her in all its glory. Its hilt was of dragonbone, gilded with gold, with a gem of polished dragonglass embedded in it. Finishing the dagger, was the blade of grey Valyrian steel. "Take my dagger, and fight!" Arya commanded her, forcing Tessa’s fingers to wrap around the Valyrian dagger's hilt.

"I don't know how to fight," Tessa replied timidly.

Arya placed her small hand on Tessa's cheek and looked at her with those dark, deep and knowing eyes of a Stark. "First lesson," Arya said. "Stick 'em with the pointy end."


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns but he may have changed. He reunites with Sansa, the Queen in the North. But the events of their past may come between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very dialogue-heavy chapter (which I actually enjoy doing,) so I hope you like that. The favourite for me was the Jon and Sansa scene!
> 
> Enjoy, let me know what you think!

Ghost ran ahead of them, jostling through the snow with both his severed and good ears pricked up, listening intently for game. Jon watched the white fur of his direwolf runoff between the trees and brush, and he smiled to himself.

"It's not too late, Jon," Tormund said. "We can always turn back."

Jon gazed into the thicket of the Haunted Forest. Still a few days from the Wall. "Bramir and Isrik would have made it to the Wall days ago and told them we're coming." Two young men they sent ahead on fresh, quick horses to inform the brothers of the Night's Watch of Jon's return and the five other Freefolk riding with him.

"Bah!" Tormund blurted in response. "We can still turn around, Bramir and Isrik would find their way back. And you Jon, you belong in the real North. Not on some frozen wall with a bunch of rapers, murderers and sad old men. You're a hero, a king!"

"We would have made you one if you'd let us," said Val. Jon looked to her, and her honey-coloured hair wore in a thick braid over her shoulder. She returned his look with her pale blue-grey eyes and smirked at him. Val was a beauty, with high, sharp cheekbones and a slender figure. Though the many leathers and furs she wore, often hid that. Shrouded in a bearskin cloak, Val road next to Jon on a grey mare. Her smirk parted, and she spoke to Jon again in her heavy accent of the Freefolk, an accent that was as thick as Tormunds. "I saw you fighting in Winterfell against the dead, riding that dragon and running through the castle. We all saw you fighting there and against that bastard Ramsay and before all that, at Hardhome. We wanted to name you our _King Beyond the Wall_ , keep you all to ourselves. Because you fight like a king should, but you denied it. Why Jon Snow?”

"I told you why Val," Jon answered. Val was a fighter herself, Jon had not known her well when the Freefolk were south of the Wall. Though he remembered her presence when Jon met Mance Rayder, the last King Beyond the Wall, and he remembered seeing her when Jon and Sansa attempted to get the Freefolk's aid against Ramsay. It was not until Jon was exiled to the Wall a second time and was giving the duty of guiding the Freefolk to a new home, did he begin to know the type of woman Val really was. She was capable, she knew how to hunt and how to fight, though she was not as skilled as Tormund, or Jon, Val could hold her own and the fact that she had survived both the Battle of the Bastards and the Long Night, paid further testament to that, as did it add credence to her bravery. Nor was Val one to hide her words, she spoke her mind even if it hurt. Jon liked that about her, Val's honesty was a refreshment that he was thankful for. His entire time with the Freefolk was months and months of refreshing life that he sorely needed. Upon realising this, Jon suddenly wished he had stayed with them.

"You swore an oath," Val said with a mocking tone. "That is why you could not stay with us. Because of an oath you made to a realm that threw you away when it benefited them."

"That is why," Jon said disparagingly.

"Pah. You owe them nothing. Your sister gave you up without a thought."

"Sansa had no choice."

"Everyone has a choice, fight or die. Sansa Stark broke a promise she made to you, and she did not even fight to save you from what she did." 

Jon sighed. "It was not that simple, Val. Sansa did what she had to, to prevent a war. Same with Bran and Arya."

"She should have chosen war," Val spat. Even as refreshing as it was, sometimes Val's blunt and direct way of speaking got on Jon's nerves. She did not hide her dislike of Sansa, though, there was truth to her spiteful words. Sansa _had_ broken a promise she made to Jon. On the day he told her and Arya the truth of his parentage, in the godswood by the heart tree, he made them promise to keep it a secret because he knew what it would do. Yet it was Sansa who broke that promise, knowing full well the damage it would cause. The secret became information that destroyed Daenerys, and that was exactly what Sansa wanted. Jon remembered her asking for his forgiveness for what she did, for what she made him do. And he remembered not giving her that forgiveness. He was not ready then, he was not ready now, even over a year later. He thought about that final moment he had with Sansa, Arya and Bran, at the docks in King's Landing and it hurt him each time, for many different reasons.

"Too harsh, Val," Tormund said. "Sansa's not so bad. Ah, she is very different from Jon, to the women of the Freefolk. But there is a fight in her. She is kissed by fire for a reason."

"There is no fight in her," Val replied.

"You've never spoken to her. Aye, she hasn't got the fight like us, a battle fury with sword and spear. But she fights with her mind and her words. And from what I know, she has not lost a battle. She might have broken a promise to Jon; it's not ours to question. But Sansa beat the Dragon Queen. No one else can say that."

"Sounds like you love her, Tormund."

"Bah, southern women don't like me. Besides, I don't think the baby crow here would like me being with his sister, ha!" Tormund bellowed a laugh towards Jon, Jon smiled in return, and they continued their journey in quiet.

When they packed up their final camp inside the Haunted Forest, Jon had changed from his scrap Freefolk garb of a white linen tunic, fur breeches and a brown-bear fur cloak into the outfit of a black brother. A black shirt, black pants, black leather boots and black moleskin gloves. Over it all, he wore boiled leather, sewn inside with wool, again all dyed in black. Finally, he threw over his shoulders the sable cloak, trimmed in wolf fur. He had not worn all this since he had settled with the Freefolk, more than a year past. The clothing was faded, the cloak had holes, and the shirt had become too small for him. But he was a brother of the Night's Watch, and black was always his colour. Jon's hair had grown long and wild, falling past his neck and often into his eyes. He tied it all behind him with a band of thin leather.

He made his final ride with Ghost, as always by his side, and Val, Tormund and their company of Lok — a veteran of the Battle of the Bastards and the Long Night. His spearwife, Brena — who was also a friend of Val, a woman as fierce as her, yet double her size. And their daughter — the eight-year-old Daya. Who carried a small spear with her everywhere. Jon would smile happily when Daya told him that she would protect him from all the vicious beasts in the forest. The morning sun peered over the looming Wall in the distance, as they rode out from where the Haunted Forest stopped, and a half a mile of sparse, tree-less and snow-speckled land lay. Jon had spotted the Wall a great distance away, but seeing it so close here, made him suddenly anxious. The Wall was weeping, and it seemed larger than he remembered and more ominous, with the sun silhouetting its towering manse. Despite Jon’s rising doubts, he sighed them away and ordered his horse forward. The two horn blasts to signal their approach, blew across the land as they came closer to the thick ice wall. When they reached the solid oak gate that led beneath the Wall and into Castle Black, it slowly rasped open and the iron chain that pulled it echoed its grating noise. When the gate stopped, five men came from the tunnel on its other side. Four of them wore dour looks on their faces, weathered and bearded, and Jon recognised none of them. But he did recognise the fifth. Howland Reed came sauntering in the centre, smiling wide. His thin hair was greyer than Jon remembered and his belly had more of a bulge, but his green eyes sparkled and he walked as if he were a young man.

"Three months late, First Ranger," he said, still grinning pleasantly.

Jon smiled. "Lost track of time, Lord Commander."

Lord Commander Reed stopped before them, as did the four, dour black brothers. "Well, I haven't received any orders to label you a deserter or hang you for exceeding your twelve months guiding the Wildlings. So, you’re welcome here, as is your escort. How long do they plan to stay?"

“A few days, Crow. No more,” Val stated coldly.

“Well then, come through. We have prepared some food and drink in the common hall. Mulled wine, bacon, sausage and hard bread."

"Ahh, a feast to break your teeth on," Tormund said jauntily. "I haven't eaten a good pig in months!"

They flooded into the common hall to a mid-morning feast with tables full of food. Crisp bacon filled the stone room with the smoky scent. Pork sausages, loaves of warm bread, leg hams and pork ribs littered across the platters and amongst them pitchers of the Night's Watch's famous spiced wine. They were greeted in the hall by Isrik and Bramir and together they all enjoyed the meal. Jon sat between Tormund and Val as they devoured the feast. Lok ate so much, his stomach began to hurt, and then he ate more. Even young Daya scoffed down on pork ribs and sausages, clear to Jon that she had not had a feast like this in such a long time. She and Jon laughed together as they belched and fed Ghost portions of each of their meals and Jon could not help but grin as Ghost happily wagged his tail while Daya scratched him behind his severed ear.

As they continued to eat, a handful of black brothers soon joined them, this time, Jon recognised them all. They were a few men from the group of former Lannister soldiers exiled to the Wall with Jon. There was the skinny and long-nosed Keran. Ricker, with the stump where his right arm would have been. Even Mott, with his deep scar below his lip down to his chin, had come and he was no fan of Jon. Greeting Jon last, was the ginger-haired and burnt faced Eddie. He hugged Jon like a brother and was likely the only man Jon could see as a friend amongst the Night's Watch. Despite the abundant scars on his face he had received from Drogon on the Goldroad, and that he was a black brother for the rest of his life, Eddie was full of life and contagious cheer. And he was one amongst few who made Jon's exile to the Wall bearable.

They shared wine and plates of ham and bacon as they caught up on their lives. Keran, Mott and Eddie were part of the order of Rangers, and given Mott's experience as a soldier, was granted the title of First Ranger in Jon's absence. Ricker was a part of the Steward's and happy to be there. Even with one arm, he could make a hearty pea soup of his mother's recipe, is what he told Jon. Davis, another of the Lannister soldiers, was stationed at Eastwatch by the Sea, the castle of which, Jon heard it, was still being repaired. 

While they ate and reminisced, Eddie decided to sing a song to his black brothers and for the Freefolk visitors. The song he told it, was called _A Time for Wolves_ , and he had heard it in King’s Landing from a fair-haired young woman after the sack of the city though he could not remember the woman’s name. “I think it was Tas, or Bessa? Or Lessa? Oh, doesn’t matter,” he said. The song was warming to Jon, not only because of Eddie’s soothing singer's voice, but because the song clearly sang of the Starks of Winterfell. “Here come the wolves, nowhere to run when the wolves come!” Eddie sang the chorus with a cup of wine sloshing around in one hand, his other gesticulating fancifully, and a wide smile marking his face. After a time, the heavy door into the hall swung open, interrupting the song and a dour-faced Night's Watchmen entered, telling Jon that Lord Commander Reed asked for his presence in the Lord Commander's Tower.

Jon sat opposite Lord Howland Reed at his desk inside the Lord Commanders tower. They drank a cup of mulled wine each as they talked. "I hope your time with the Wildlings has been as enjoyable as our time on the Wall." Lord Reed said.

"I can't say. More room to move, I suppose," Jon said and took a quick drink from his wine.

Reed gave a short chuckle. "True enough, the Night's Watch has mostly been rebuilding, Eastwatch. Mole's Town too, with the help of the Hornwoods of Last Hearth."

"Not much different from the Freefolk."

Reed's eyebrows raised as he sat on his chair across from Jon. "Is that so? Tell me."

"My lord? You want me to inform on the Freefolk?" Jon asked perplexed.

"That is your job as First Ranger."

"The Freefolk are our allies."

"They are for now, while you remain at the Wall and while Tormund remains as their leader."

"Tormund is not their only leader. He is one of many."

"All the more reason for us to stay informed of them. What if that group of leaders decide not to be so friendly to us, hmm? You were a king, Jon. Surely you know that you must keep informed of both your enemies and your allies. For they may be friendly now, but the next day is as unclear as the next year."

"You sound like Sansa."

"Ha!" Howland roared. "I wish! Tell me of the Wildlings, Jon."

Jon sighed and took a long drink from his wine, when he returned the cup to the desk, he regarded Lord Reed with a sullen look. "We have built a village just before the mountains of Thenn alongside a tributary of the river Milkwater. The village is named Mance. Another group has rebuilt Hardhome. Last we heard from them they had reconstructed the longhall and a few huts."

"Ships?" Howland asked.

"Nothing but small fishing boats."

"Hmm. And what is it like Beyond the Wall now?"

Jon gave him a sad smile. "Peaceful, my lord. Animals are in abundance for hunting — Deer, elk, hares. Then there are the Bears, wolves and shadowcats of course. Seems they were smart enough to hide from the Night King and his army. The Milkwater only freezes over for a few months, otherwise, it is alive with fish. Some months are much warmer than others, though it still snows in summer. But sometimes, even the snow melts so much that we walk on grass. Even the Haunted Forest becomes greener. It was never like this before — it was just constantly freezing temperatures and white snow as far as the eye could see."

"Funny you should say that because Westeros has had a similar situation. The winter that came didn't last years and years like people feared, ever since the destruction of the Night King and the end of the Long Night, the seasons seem to be shorter. Spring, summer, autumn and winter seem to come and go within a year, rather than years. The maesters of the Citadel cannot explain it, though the superstitious of us believe it had something to do with the end of the Long Night. However, the North still suffers from blistering colds and summer snows as well, yet these days we receive a raven from the Citadel nearly every three months, marking the start of a new season. We're currently in autumn and winter is showing its fangs on the horizon.

" _Winter is coming_ ," Jon said sullenly.

"No truer words."

"Have you heard much of Westeros? Is Bran well?"

"From what we know, Jon, your brother is doing quite well. The Six Kingdoms have been at relative peace, and there has been little issue with Bran's role as king. Though we are far away from King's Landing, so our news could be quite old."

"Have they forgotten that we exist yet?" Jon asked with a sour tone.

Yet Reed only smiled. "I won't lie, the Lords of Westeros pay little attention to us except for when they need to get rid of their prisoners. Some even refuse to see that they should help us, they think because the North is independent and that the Wall is in the North, then we are the North's responsibility and only the Norths. They fail to see that the Night's Watch, while linked closely to the North and its people, it is impartial to rulers and borders and it serves the entire realm, not just one kingdom. Being that as it may, we often have to beg or pay exorbitant amounts for supplies and materials. We've run out of stone to repair Castle Eastwatch for a start, and we are quickly running out of timber for its ships. All the other repairs along the Wall and its castles and forts have been postponed, we are slowly shortening on material to make clothing, and we never have enough weapons. King Bran has given us supplies, but with six kingdoms to rule and no immediate threat of Wildlings or White Walkers, our importance is low, and he has many other things to concern himself with. Archmaester Ebrose in the Citadel has at least sent us two maester, Anhelm and Ornwell, so not all is bad."

"Does the North not help?"

"They do. As I said earlier Larence Hornwood who is the new Lord of Last Hearth, had sent a few men and supplies to help us rebuild Mole's Town, and he has even helped restore a few villages and holdfasts in the Gift, per Queen Sansa’s orders. She herself has sent many wagons of timber from the Wolfswood along with stone and experienced stonemasons."

 _So she did become Queen._ Jon thought to himself.

"Still though," Howland continued. "She has the entire North to rebuild, as well as the fleet in White Harbour she has begun and the trade value the trees of the Wolfswood have with Braavos cannot be overlooked. So we cannot rely on her for everything, but I will need to speak to her about this all when she comes here."

"She's coming here?"

"Indeed. Queen Sansa commanded me that she was to be told of your return immediately. So when those young Wildlings you sent as messengers arrived a few days ago, I sent a raven straight to Winterfell. Sansa returned it saying she was already on her way. She should be here in a day or two."

"That's… good to hear," Jon said unnerved. "How has she fared as queen?"

"Well, she's been busy," Howland said and gave a short laugh. "Those hard Northern Lords made Sansa their Queen, and with good reason. After fighting for Northern independence, she has rebuilt much of the country, reseeded farmlands in the Gift. Created a few new Houses in the North. Turned a bastard into a lord and made another lord headless. She had Deepwood Motte taken from the inside, by some trick and manipulation she concocted. Forced Robett Glover to choose between the Night's Watch or death. He chose death."

"Well, Sansa always said she would deal with him."

"And she did. Cut is head off herself. Did it right outside Deepwood. In front of his men, his wife and their daughter and son. She made Gawen the Master of Deepwood Motte and had Robett's four loyalist guardsmen sent here. Clyn, Alec, Kay and Tobin. Three of them were with me when I met you outside the gate."

"But there were four men with you," Jon corrected him.

"There were, but the fourth wasn't one of Glover's men. Tobin died almost a month ago now."

"I'm sorry. What got him?"

"Desertion. He fled from Castle Black in the night. He was spotted in Queen's Crown trying to steal food. Queen Sansa was informed, she rode out and executed him as a deserter."

The words brought, flashing through Jon's mind, memories from a long time ago. Where he stood with Robb and Bran as they watched Ned Stark execute a Night's Watch deserter in the hills beyond Winterfell. A time many years ago, when he was a boy in a much simpler world.

"Did… _the Queen_ send you his head?" Jon asked Howland, remembering that Ned Stark sent the deserters head back to Joer Mormont.

"She did," Howland confirmed. 

And Jon wondered to himself, that if he deserted, would Sansa do the same to him? "You said earlier that you received no orders to label me a traitor or deserter, not to hang me or have me killed in any way."

"Yes. Queen Sansa and King Bran both agreed to allow you twelve months with the Freefolk and then return to the Wall. When those twelve months were up, and you had not appeared, I sent a raven to Winterfell informing the Queen. I received nothing back."

"Then wouldn't the decision fall on you, my lord?"

"It would… but, you are Jon Snow, I promised your father that I would keep your secret and protect you and your family. I have no intention of breaking that promise to Ned Stark, even now. Nor do I believe Queen Sansa would want me to do you harm."

 _Family_. Did he really have a family anymore? They were all gone far away. Sansa, Bran, Arya… _Arya!_ Jon shot to attention when he thought of her. "Have you received any news about Arya, my lord?" he asked hurriedly. 

Howland gave him a sorrowful look. "No, son. I'm sorry. She could have very well tried to send word, but the Wall is leagues from everything, and it is not uncommon for ravens to get shot down, or lost on the journey, especially now with how chaotic our seasons have been."

Jon slumped back into his chair with his hope and eagerness sapped from him. "May I go, my lord? I need to rest."

* * *

On Jon's third day at the Wall, a cavalcade arrived at Castle Black in a sea of steel, iron and leather. Soldiers, servants and retainers flooded into the courtyard as Jon stood next to Lord Commander Reed, with the eighteen other men of the Night's Watch of Castle Black arrayed in a line awaiting the visitors. Tormund and Val stood directly behind Jon with the rest of the Freefolk next to them. Jon grinned as he saw Aberdale riding in, leading four other soldiers in a tight formation, all of them wore matching steel armour and carried sword or axe at their waist and a round iron shield strapped to their back, with the snarling sigil of House Stark embossed on them. In the centre of the five guardsmen, Jon saw _Sansa_. She rode upon a mare, its coat as white as snow, a finely made leather saddle rested on the horse, over a cloth caparison of grey and white depicting images of grey wolves on white, and white trouts on grey. Attached to the saddle in a scabbard of gold filigree, was a longsword, the hilt of which was also coated in gold filigree with a shining ruby below its crossguard that was in the shape of a stag’s antlers. Sansa herself wore a grey gown trimmed with fur under a polished steel breastplate. The centre of which, embossed the image of a heart tree. A single pauldron covered her left arm that was in the shape of a snarling direwolf. Upon her loose and flowing red hair, sat a crown of iron depicting two snarling direwolves at the front, one raising the other. 

As her mare trotted into the courtyard, Lord Reed knelt, and Jon followed suit as did the rest of the black brothers. Though Jon lifted his head watching Sansa dismount the white horse, and to his surprise, he saw a girl, perhaps of fifteen years, come in beside her, dismounting from a smaller chestnut horse. She had the olive skin, and dark eyes of Dornishmen, finishing with long dark hair tied behind her. Yet she dressed like a Northerner, perhaps even, very similar to Arya. The girl wore a heavy black cloak of sheep's wool over a studded, brown leather doublet, studded leather faulds around her thighs and brown pants and boots. Jon narrowed his eyes when he noticed, attached to her waist in a supple leather scabbard, was a thin sword reminiscent of Needle. If he had seen this girl from a distance, he would have mistaken her for Arya. She dressed like Arya. She had a sword like Arya. Who _was_ she? As if to make the situation even more strange, the Dornish girl walked over to a young boy and helped him dismount from a black pony. The boy must have been no older than ten, but he was tall for his age and his light brown hair, shrouded a gaunt face. Dressed in a white linen shirt, with a patched doublet over the top, the boy jumped from his horse into the Dornish girls arms, and the woollen lined cloak that wrapped around him flowed as he moved. Jon noticed the pin that clasped the cloak below the boy’s neck. It shaped a silver fist on a scarlet field. 

_House Glover’s sigil?_ Jon thought bewildered, but he could not dwell on it longer as he lowered his head again, noticing Sansa walking towards them, though it seemed, she came to Jon rather than Howland Reed. Jon saw her leather booted feet step in front of him, he lifted his head and witnessed her smiling down at him, her blue eyes glinting with happiness. Jon could not help but smile back. Sansa kneeled and with her hands upon his arms, lifted Jon to his feet. Lord Reed and the black brothers rose as well.

"Your Grace," said Jon once he stood straight. 

Sansa's eyes seemed to study him, looking him up and down, glancing past him towards Tormund and Val. She brought her eyes back to him. "You've let yourself go," she finally said with a coy grin.

"Not near enough," Jon replied with a broader smile. Then, they embraced.

Sansa's long arms wrapped around his neck and he wrapped his own about her waist. With her face tightly beside him, he could hear her breathing heavily with relief. The cloak Jon wore offered no amount of warmth that could equal this hug. They said no words to each other, Jon knew they did not need to in this moment. When they parted, Sansa's blue eyes were glistening, and she could not hide the smile on her face. 

She moved her hands down to Jon's arms and rubbed them tenderly. "I'm... I'm so happy you’re here," she said. Then her eyes once more went to Tormund behind Jon. "And the Freefolk too. Tormund, it's good to see you again."

Tormund pushed in besides Jon and gave Sansa a quick hug. "Ah, Sansa. Queen suits you, eh."

"I do what I can."

"You can do more," came Val's terse voice.

Sansa eyed her with a sudden furious glare. "Who are you?"

"Val, don't—” Tormund tried, but Val continued.

"Jon does not belong here. He should be free. He wants to be. He does not—”

"Val!" Jon interrupted her "Leave it be." The air felt colder, as he watched Sansa eyeing Val with a menacing glower. Howland Reed cleared his throat loudly, and Sansa turned to him.

"Your Grace, I'm glad to have you here. The King's Tower has been prepared for your convenience, and Castle Black is open to all your people," Reed said happily, trying to quell the situation with Val.

"Thank you, Lord Commander. We will be here for a few days. I will have my servants and handmaidens take care of my things."

"Your Grace, if I may. I know you only just arrived, but there are things of import that I wish to discuss with you as soon as possible. Perhaps we could head to my quarters and discuss them?"

"No. Let's go up on the Wall and discuss them there." Sansa said to Howland, and she turned to Jon. "I will speak to you after." Jon nodded and watched as Sansa ascended the stairs to the Wall's lift, with Aberdale and the four other guardsmen following her.

"You can't just speak to her like that," Jon said to Val. He and Val had retired to his quarters in the rundown Grey Keep, shortly after Sansa's ascension upon the Wall.

"I can speak to her however I like!" Val responded viciously, as she paced across the stone floor.

Jon sat on his creaky chair, looking into the small hearth then looked at Ghost who lay almost asleep, next to the fire. "Not to her Val. Not while she is Queen and not while you are south of the Wall."

"Pah! I do not care for Sansa Stark's pride. And I don't trust her either."

"You don't trust any southerner, Val."

She stopped her pacing and gave Jon a coy smile. "Can you blame me, eh?" She walked over to him in his chair, her face offering him a sultry look. Jon breathed in deep as he watched her approach and slowly lowered herself down upon him, sitting on his lap and making the old chair creak even more. "I trust you, Jon Snow," she whispered in his ear, and he felt her hand trace down his chest then slowly down to the mound of his pants. "And this friendly little wolf," she muttered again this time with a giggle. 

"We might break this chair," Jon said.

"Then we fuck on the floor," Val said harshly, and she kissed Jon hard.

Jon returned the kiss, but Val withdrew, biting his lip as she did and she began undoing the many layers of her clothing. Jon's fingers hastily worked at the fastening, though before even one came undone, a voice startled them.

"Stop," came the young voice.

"Lokh doysen!" Val cursed in the Old Tongue as she shot up from Jon's lap, unsheathing her dagger. "What the fuck are you doing here!"

Ghost shot up himself and growled violently at the figure standing in front of the closed door of Jon's quarters. The young Dornish girl that had arrived with Sansa stood there, with a straight face. She ignored Val's question. Her eyes went to Jon. "You're Jon Snow?"

Before Jon could answer, Val stepped in front of him. "He is, and you must be a dead girl!"

"If you're going to threaten me, you'd better have a bigger sword," the Dornish girl responded.

"Oh, cocky one. You want to try it, eh, girl?"

"I was trained by Arya Stark. Do you want to try it?" the girl announced proudly, and Jon's eyes widened at her.

"Why would the Hero of Winterfell train some arrogant girl like you?” Val asked unperturbed.

"Because she has a kind heart. What is your problem with the Queen in the North, hmm? Maybe I should let her know about them."

"Do it, and I will demand she brings me your head."

"You don't make demands of the Queen," the Dornish girl warned.

Val laughed, "Why? Are you her little guard dog? Going to stand by her heels and snap at anyone that questions her?"

"I might do more than snapping."

"Enough!" Jon cut in as he rose from the chair. He had enough of this farce, and he could see this going nowhere good. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

The girl took a step forward. "My name is Estyr, my lord. I’m your sister’s ward, and Arya trained me in King's Landing. They both told me about you. I was hoping we could speak… in private."

"Not happening," Val declared.

But Jon put a hand on her and gave this _Estyr_ a curious look. "Why would Arya train you? How do I know you're not lying."

Estyr shrugged, "Thought you might say that. Arya told me that when you first left for the Night's Watch when you were all younger. You said to her: different roads sometimes lead to the same castle."

Jon let out a breath. "Only Arya would know that."

Val spun on him. "I don't like this. She reminds me of a snake."

"I am a snake," Estyr said grinning.

Jon gave a short laugh. "I'll be fine, Val."

Val glowered. “Fine. I go, but Ghost stays.”

“Fine with me,” Estyr said.

The fierce Wildling woman still scowled harshly, but she dropped her shoulders and sheathed her dagger. When she made her way out of Jon's quarters, she slowed to a stop next to Estyr. Val towered over the shorter girl, yet Estyr glared up at her defiantly, and to her credit, she did not twitch or falter, and it only reminded Jon more of Arya. Val left without a word, and though Ghost had stopped growling, he stood their uneasily watching Estyr.

“This is Ghost?” Estyr said with a face full of wonder. “May I?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “He won’t harm you while I’m here.”

As Estyr walked towards Ghost, Jon strolled over to his desk and poured a deep brown ale into a cup, watching as Estyr slowly started patting Ghost’s head, then moving her fingers behind his ears. Ghost sat in front of her wagging happily. Even on his hind legs, the direwolf was as big as Estyr.

“Never thought I’d get to see a direwolf. He’s beautiful. What happened to his ear?” 

“It got bitten off in the Long Night.”

“Arya and Sansa told me about that night… horrible,” Estyr gently touched Ghost’s severed ear then looked over to Jon. "What's that?”

Jon glanced at the cup in his hands that she was asking of. "Night's Watch ale. Thousands of years old recipe."

"Can I have some?"

Jon smiled and handed her the cup, she walked over to the desk and gingerly took it from him, smelling the ale first then she drank a large gulp, only to choke and cough it back up. "Shit!" she blurted as she cleared her throat. "Gross!"

"Sansa did the same thing when she first tried it," Jon said with a laugh. "How did you become her ward?"

Estyr wiped her lips on her sleeves. "After Arya went west, she left me in Sansa's care. Sansa made me her ward and… that's it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Jon took a sip from the cup and eyed Estyr. "Why would Arya train you? She must have only known you for a few weeks."

"A few weeks, true. But I'm not sure my lord, guess she took a liking to a common girl on the streets."

"You're not a common girl, Estyr. You don't talk like one at all."

"And you're not Jon Snow, _Aegon_." she shot back. "Funny what people call us."

He grinned and finished a gulp of the ale. "So, Arya just started training you, a simple Dornish girl from the streets for no apparent reason, and also for no apparent reason, Sansa took you in and made you her ward?"

"Yes, except for two things. Arya had a sword made for me, and Queen Sansa has had me in her meetings and in court so I can watch how she rules and learn."

Jon's face contorted in complete perplexity at this news. "Truly? And why are you telling me all this?"

"You are Jon Snow. I want you to know that you can trust me."

"I barely know you."

Estyr flashed him a smile. "That's why I'm here. So we can get to know each other."

They sat in chairs by the hearth as they talked. Ghost laid between them on his belly. Estyr asked Jon a flurry of questions. About his time beyond the Wall, about the battle at Hardhome. His death and resurrection. The Long Night. The Dragons. And the most difficult, Daenerys Targaryen. Jon told her what he could, and in return Estyr spoke to him of who she was, this little girl who had fled Dorne only to suffer more in King's Landing, losing her mother to an Unsullied spear. When she told Jon this, his heart filled with guilt, if it were not an Unsullied spear, it could have very well been a Northern sword, a sword of the men that _he_ led. They moved on, she spoke of her time with Arya and their training and the talks they would have. Estyr showed Jon the sword Arya had made. It was indeed near-identical to Needle. However, the hilt had an image of a falling star below its crossguard and a rising sun pommel, unlike the weirwood face that Jon had fashioned on Needle's pommel for Arya. Then came her life with Sansa. Estyr trained in Winterfell, with sword, on horse and in lessons with Maester Wolkan and then further with Sansa. Jon once again stated how curious it was that this common girl was getting all this attention and training.

"Can't say I know," Estyr said with another shrug. 

Jon gave her an eye. "I sparred with Arya once in Winterfell. She beat me. You have similar training to her, but I think I could beat you if we sparred. And if I do, I think you should tell me the truth."

Estyr only laughed and rolled her eyes at Jon. "How much of that disgusting ale have you drank, my lord? You stupid. I'm fourteen this year. Of course you would beat me. Would you feel proud beating up a fourteen-year-old?"

Jon laughed now. "Well, I didn't mean it like that."

"Of course not," Estyr's smile suddenly went firm. "Arya and Sansa are good to me. They are good people. That's why they took me in. That's the truth, I know. That is the only truth I care about. Arya gave me a sword, and a means to use it. Sansa gave me a home, and a will to protect it. I owe both of them my life."

Jon nodded. "I understand. I won't push you on it."

"Thank you," she rose from the chair she had been sitting on and smiled at Jon. "I've enjoyed this, my lord."

"So have I. But call me, Jon."

"I've enjoyed this, Jon," she knelt down and gave Ghost a scruff behind his ears, then suddenly spun around, very similarly to Arya and walked briskly towards the door.

"You're leaving?" he called to her.

"Yes, I've got to speak to Queen Sansa."

"You're not going to tell her about Val, are you?"

Estyr stopped at the closed door, with a hand on the handle. "Yep," she said, flashing a grin.

"I'd rather you didn't," Jon said, though knowing it would not work with this quick-tongued Dornish girl.

"Sorry, Jon Snow. But Sansa is _my queen_."

Estyr left Jon and Ghost alone, the man and the wolf stared into the hearth, watching the flames dance around each other. There was certainly more to Estyr than she let on; there had to be. He knew Arya to be kind, but to do all she did for no reason? It puzzled him. Though perhaps Sansa could provide some insight, he thought. He did not like to play these games, maybe he had spent too much time with the Freefolk, but he did not believe that was a bad thing. 

Jon looked down to Ghost who was licking his paws. "We should have stayed with the Freefolk, boy." 

A sudden rasp at his door responded to Jon's words, Ghost pricked his ears up and glared at the door. "Come in," Jon said lazily. 

Aberdale Woodard, the Captain of Sansa's guard, opened the door and stepped in. Jon rose from his chair and gave the man an enormous grin. Aberdale had served the Starks since the Battle of the Bastards and had proven himself a great soldier and his time serving Jon and Sansa after that only proved him to be fiercely loyal and most of all, honourable.

"Aberdale, my friend!" Jon bellowed to him, and the two men shook hands.

"M'lord! It's good to see you again." Aberdale said, also smiling broadly.

"You too, you too. I'm not surprised that Sansa has put you in charge of all her guard. How are you faring?"

"Busy m'lord, but I enjoy it. And you, are you happy being back?"

Jon sighed. "I'm… sure I will be."

Aberdale gave a chuckle. "If it's between you and me, m'lord, I wouldn't blame you if you stayed with the Wildlings. You don't owe anyone in Westeros anything."

"Thank you, Aberdale. But it would be best if that _stayed_ between you and me."

"Oh, I know, m'lord. Being beside Queen Sansa, in her meetings and council has taught me a lot about people. More than I'd like to know. Speaking of which, she asks if you would join her in the King's Tower."

"I'm surprised she hasn't changed it to the _Queen's Tower_."

Aberdale grinned. "Maybe she ought to, m'lord. She is a good queen, but I reckon she ain't that vain do such a thing."

Stark guards littered the stairs and walks of the King’s Tower, the last four of which were members of Sansa’s more personal guard. They were the ones who wore matching steel armour, though it was not gilded and of the quality of a knight of the Kingsguard, it was nonetheless well made. The last two guards flanked the oak and studded iron door to the King's Tower, one of which was a woman and Jon gave her a short glance as he passed. The door to the tower was already open and they walked in freely. When Jon stepped in beside Aberdale, he noticed Sansa sitting behind a wide desk, calmly writing on parchment. The light from the fire in the hearth beside her made her red hair shine even more vividly, and the iron crown rested upon her scalp, the flames shimmering in its reflection. Across from her, sat the same young boy that had arrived with Estyr. And to Jon’s complete lack of surprise, Estyr herself was there, standing across the desk from Sansa, her hands behind her back. Jon felt as if they had walked in just after Estyr had finished talking. Aberdale announced their presence as Sansa returned her quill to the inkwell, folded the parchment, poured sealing wax onto the crease, and stamped it with a direwolf seal.

"Thank you, captain," she said as she rose from the chair and offered the parchment toward him. "Would you take this to the rookery? Ask Maester Anhelm if we may borrow a raven to fly to Storm's End. Take Jaren with you."

"Of course," Aberdale replied, taking the parchment from her. “Come on boy.”

"Can I go up on the Wall?" The boy named Jaren asked joyfully.

"No," Estyr said quickly. “Knowing you, you’d fall off the top.”

Jaren poked a tongue at Estyr, and Jon saw a smile creep on Sansa’s face. “When you are done in the rookery, captain,” she said. “Take Jaren to the training yards and let him watch the black brothers spar. He can partake in training _if_ he behaves."

"Yes! Even better!" Jaren bellowed, and he shot up from his chair and ran out of the solar, stopping in the threshold of the door, waiting eagerly for Aberdale. 

“Don’t fall over now,” Estyr said in a teasing tone back to Jaren.

Captain Aberdale smiled at Sansa and Jon. Jon returned it as Aberdale left, closing the door behind him. Next, Sansa addressed the Dornish girl. “Thank you, Estyr. You may go.”

Estyr bowed low. “My queen.” Then she left the room quickly, flashing Jon a sharp grin.

When they were finally alone, Jon faced Sansa looking into her sharp blue eyes. Then, respecting etiquette, he knelt to her. "Your Grace," he said with his head low. "You asked for me?"

Sansa stepped from behind the table and walked towards Jon. "You don't have to talk to me like that," she said, and he felt her hands on his shoulders lift him to his feet. She was smiling wide. Then suddenly, she hugged him tightly once more. "I've missed you."

"You too," Jon returned, and he embraced her. Sansa's hugs had a unique warmness about them that he relished. 

"How was your journey back?" she asked when they parted.

"It was fine, not very eventful."

"It was good of Tormund to give you a seven-man escort. Lord Reed tells me the Freefolk have settled?"

"Yes, we… _They_ built a village near Thenn. Some have started rebuilding Hardhome as well."

"Reed said you told him as much. The Freefolk should build trade ships too. They are welcome to trade with the North."

"The Freefolk aren’t seafaring people. But I'll let Tormund know."

Sansa smiled. "And what about you, did you settle?"

Jon flashed a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"The warrior woman that was with you in the courtyard earlier today…”

"Val?" Jon asked with a slightly cocked head.

"Mhm," groaned Sansa. "She was very protective of you. And she doesn't like me very much. Estyr told me some interesting things she overheard…”

"Of course she did. Val doesn't like most people that aren't Freefolk," Jon said. It would do no good, to tell the truth of what Val really thought of Sansa.

"Except for you, I take it. Is she your woman? What do the Freefolk call them, Spearwives?"

"Ha," Jon let out. "Val is a warrior. But she is no one's woman."

"Her and Arya would get along," Sansa said with a coy smile. "It's clear that Val loves you. Do you love her?"

Jon broke his eye contact with Sansa. The words she said only brought him pain. The last person he loved, he had murdered. Daenerys Targaryen had been in the back of Jon's mind for many months, though his time with the Freefolk, Val in particular, helped him to forget, to move on. But being back in Westeros, especially with Sansa, brought everything flooding back fresh into his mind. In truth, he did care for Val, but he was unsure if he could ever love another like he loved Dany.

"I care about Val," Jon finally answered.

"But do you love her?" Sansa persisted with the question.

"Why is this important?" Jon blurted at her. Sansa was aware of Val's dislike of her, but was she threatened by Val? _Would you get rid of her like you got rid of Dany, Sansa?_

"I only want to know if my brother is happy," Sansa replied.

Jon sighed. When was the last time he was happy? _I don't remember it, that's for sure_. "I'm as happy as I could be," he lied. Then he asked, wanting to change the subject: "Have you heard anything from Arya?" though he expected the question to have the same answer Howland Reed gave him.

Sansa stared at him for a moment, but she moved on from her questions to Jon’s pleasure, though her face dropped with a sullen look. “We have. A raven delivered this to Winterfell, some months ago,” she reached underneath her steel breastplate and pulled out a folded and faded parchment. "This won't make anything easier for you… but Arya would have wanted you to see it."

 _Arya!_ Jon snatched the parchment from Sansa’s hand and unfolded it desperately. 

_306 A.C The voyager ship Grey Wind. Sailing in unknown seas, west of Westeros._

_In the hand of Tessa Fairmanne — Steward of Grey Wind._

_By the command of Arya Stark — Princess of Winterfell. Hero of Winterfell and Captain of Grey Wind._

_For Queen Sansa Stark._

“She called her ship _Grey Wind_ ,” Jon said aloud and with joy, remembering Robb Stark and his direwolf Grey Wind. But Sansa said nothing, he looked up to her, and her eyes were full of sadness. Jon returned to the parchment, more anxious than before.

_I was told not to be vague, and tell our situation how it truly is, no matter how foreboding it may be. Since we left the Targaryen Islands, Grey Wind has been sailing west for many months, though we have not seen land, nor any other vessel in that time. We started rationing food after four months. After ten months, the fish in the sea stopped biting. Now, as I write this, we sail towards a storm that seems to act as a boundary to whatever is beyond it. No matter how far north or south we travel in an attempt to go around the storm, it always lies to our west. So naturally, Captain Arya intends to sail through it. She is not afraid, but I must say, I am. The storm is not like the ones at home. Its clouds are the blackest black I have ever seen and lightning flashes through them without pause. Though what I fear most, is the skies above the clouds that are red like blood. I do not know what it is, nor what lies beyond them, perhaps our salvation, or our death. Regardless, I will follow my captain to the end. We all will._

_We are far from Westeros, but should the ravens we send, make it home, and this parchment finds its way to the hands of our countrymen, I ask that you pray for us. Be it to the Old Gods, or the New. I fear we will need all the help we can get._

_Tessa Fairmanne._

Jon’s heart fell heavy with fear and anxiety. He lifted his eyes to Sansa, who still gazed at him with sad eyes. "Has anything else come? Has Bran tried to find her with his power?"

"No,” Sansa told him. “I did receive a raven from King's Landing, Tyrion said they also had a raven from Arya's ship. The letter was the same as this one. But Tyrion said nothing of Bran looking for Arya."

"Is anyone doing anything!"

"What can we do, Jon?"

"Send ships out to find her! Send a raven to King's Landing, to Old Town, ask them to do the same."

"I've thought about that. I'm sure Bran has too. But I can't risk lives to sail west to find one ship in such a vast sea, especially with all this we now know might face them. A storm with red skies? What happens if the ship we send to find Arya is lost? Do I send more after that? Jon, believe me, I want Arya safe as much as you. But I have to think of the lives of the people I rule."

"More than your family?" Jon said spitefully.

"There is no one more important to me than my family. You know that. But Arya chose this."

"Arya chose adventure and life. Not death." Jon handed the parchment back to Sansa, and his anxious heart felt a sudden desperate want to find Arya. But knowing how hopeless her situation was, only made him more irritated and sorrowful. “I… I wish…”

Jon felt Sansa’s hand on his shoulder. “So do I, Jon.”

He closed his eyes tight, to stop his tears, then shook his head violently to throw out the thoughts that pierced his mind. “The crew she has, are they good? Strong?”

Sansa removed her hand. “I chose them myself. Most are Northerners and Valemen. Soldiers and sailors. A few, like Tessa Fairmanne, are southerners or from King’s Landing, but they are all good people and skilled in their own way. Arya knew she was sailing into the unknown Jon. We… shouldn’t dwell on it.”

“I know… I know.” Jon breathed sadly. He desperately wanted to leave, to get on a ship or even ride to King’s Landing and make Bran find Arya with his abilities, to find out if she was okay. But he knew he could not. Not only was Jon a sworn brother, but Bran was a king now, he could not make demands of him, even if he were family. He sighed again and tried to move on. “The boy that was here before, who is he?” he asked Sansa.

"Jaren. Gawen Glover's son," said Sansa. "I am fostering him for a time."

"Gawen Glover wanted to foster his son with you after what you did to his father?"

"Well, I didn't give him a choice."

Jon's expression dropped to a discomforted look. He knew what that meant. "You took Gawen's son from him forcefully, to keep his loyalty?"

"Yes," admitted Sansa. "You would have advised against it?"

"You know I would have. Gawen might bend the knee and call you his queen and swear his loyalty, but he won't truly be loyal to you, he will never respect you. He will never trust you."

"You think I don't know that? I do not care for his respect or trust. But I do know he fears me. And he fears what would happen should he betray me. It is his son that will trust me. Jaren will get to know me, to see me as a parental figure. He will know Winterfell, and it's people. And years from now, when it is time for him to take his seat in Deepwood Motte, I will have someone there loyal to me."

"That's what we thought would happen with Theon Greyjoy, and look what he did."

Sansa shot him a cold look. "Theon paid for that, Jon. More than enough."

"That doesn't change what happened," Jon replied calmly.

"It does to me. Do not speak ill of Theon," Sansa made her words harsh then turned abruptly and marched to the corner of the room to a table and began pouring wine from a pitcher into goblets. "Drink?" she asked curtly.

"What about Estyr? _Your Grace_." Jon asked, just as harsh.

"I'll take that as a no," Sansa said derisively.

"Do you have plans for her like you do for Jaren? She came into my quarters on her own. She told me Arya had taken her in, trained her."

"Yes, I expected she would go and speak to you."

"So it's true?"

Sansa spun around to face Jon and took a sip from her wine. "It is, what about it?"

"Arya just started training a Dornish common girl and gave her a sword? Then you brought her to Winterfell. Why?"

"I brought her to Winterfell because Arya asked me too."

"Estyr said you've been including her in your meetings and in court. Did Arya ask you to do that too?"

"No, she didn't. Is this an interrogation? What does it matter, why do you care?"

"Don't act the fool. I care because Estyr was keeping something from me. And so are you. It's not like Arya to do what she did, unless it was for a reason. Arya has a kind heart, but to go out of her way for this one girl she barely knew and to give her a sword and ask for her to be raised in Winterfell? There is more to why Arya did this. To why you're doing it."

"You know Arya so well," Sansa stated condesendingly, and Jon watched her eyes flourish over him, studying and thinking on her next words, as she was one to do. She placed her goblet down then gazed lazily at the ground as she walked from the wine table and stopped between him and the wide desk. "You are a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. There is nothing you can do, and you're better off if you didn't know."

Jon scoffed, "Is that truly why? Or is it because you don't trust me?"

Sansa glared at him with shock. "How could you say that? I trust you with my life."

"Just not with someone else's, _Your Grace_."

"Stop talking to me like that!" Sansa commanded, her voice thick with frustration. She removed the crown from her head and slammed it hard onto the desk. "I'm your sister here now, not your queen! What has happened to you? Why are you being like this? I asked you here so I could talk to my brother, not for you to mock me and play the boy!"

Jon chose not to answer her. Instead, he carried his eyes to the table with the pitcher and goblets and made his way towards it. He could feel Sansa's eyes on him as he poured the wine and drank it slowly. It was sweet and musty, but it did nothing to help the situation. There was tension between them, Jon had felt it since Sansa had arrived at the Wall. Only now it was out in the open and exacerbated tenfold. 

"Do you hate me, Jon?" Sansa asked solemnly. "For what I did? Is that why you're like this?"

"I don't hate you, Sansa," Jon replied. He finished the remainder of his wine quickly and turned to her. "But you broke an oath you made to me."

"So it is why," Sansa looked to the stone floor, defeated. "Will you ever forgive me?"

"I don't know," Jon answered truthfully, and his gut pained when he saw a tear come down Sansa's cheek.

She wiped the tear away and stood back up tall, giving a heavy sigh. "If I could go back in time and were able to do things differently… I wouldn't. I would do it all again, the same way, without a second thought."

Jon shook his head with disappointment. "And how do you sleep at night, knowing you broke a promise to me? Knowing what you caused?"

"I sleep, knowing you're alive. I did what I had to do, to protect you, Jon. To protect our family."

"And it forced me to murder the woman I loved. Because she would have burnt you, and Arya. Neither of you would have knelt to her."

"No, we wouldn't have. I'm grateful for what you did, not only for protecting us but because you saved the realm from a tyrant."

"Dany wouldn't have become that if you didn’t manipulate things and just kept the secret like I asked you!"

"You don't actually believe that, do you?" Sansa said gravely. "Even if I had kept the secret, Daenerys would have turned sooner or later, if not because of what Cersei or I did, then because of someone else in the future. The signs were there. You just blinded yourself from them. Willingly." 

"And you were blinded as well. You wanted to destroy her."

"You would have made for a great king. That's what I wanted." Sansa stepped towards him and took his hand in hers. "Please, I don't want to leave the Wall with this still shadowing us. Do I have to beg for your forgiveness? Do I have to move the earth for you? Because I will. If you want to go back home to Winterfell, or... return beyond the Wall with the Freefolk. Val said you want to be free, hmm? I can make it so. I can take away your oath to the Night's Watch, you know? Pardon you."

"You'd do that? People would know why you did it, and it would set a precedent," said Jon.

"To hell with the precedent and what others think."

"What about the Unsullied then?"

"It could be years before they find out, and if Grey Worm sail's back here seeking war, I will give it to him and throw them all back into the sea."

Jon smiled at her sadly. There was still that spirit he knew Sansa had. "None of that will happen Sansa. You said it yourself. I'm a sworn brother of the Night's Watch now. Some of us take our oaths seriously." He pulled his hand out from her grip. "Will that be all, _Your Grace_?"

Sansa's eyes that, only moments ago, filled with sadness and desperation, were now filled with judgment, and spite. "Do you truly want it to be like this between us?"

"Is that a threat? Should I be watching over my back for the Queen in the North?"

"I would never do that to you. The fact that you could even think that hurts me. You are my brother, and I will love you no matter how much you despise me."

Jon felt a pang of guilt hit him. "I can't give you what you want, Sansa. I don't even know what I want anymore. What to think."

She lifted her chin at Jon and stared at him, thin-lipped. "Then I am sorry. We’re done here."

Jon nodded tersely, though despite the argument they had, he made sure to pay attention to etiquette, Sansa was still Queen after all. He knelt once again to her before he made his leave. He felt the coldness of the stone as he placed a knee on it. " _Your Grace_ ," he announced finally.

This time though, there were no hands to lift him, and Jon stayed kneeling with his head low for a much longer time. And yet he could feel Sansa's piercing blue eyes staring daggers at him all the while, and his knee began to ache the longer he stayed on it.

"Go," Sansa finally said, though the harshness of her tone, made the word cut like a dagger.

When he rose, Sansa had her back facing him. Jon gazed at the back of her head for a moment, the fire in the hearth, still making her flowing red hair glow beautifully. He reached out a hand for her but stopped thinking better of it. Instead, he turned around, and his outreached hand went for the oaken door. Jon dropped his shoulders and sighed wearily as he left the King's Tower.

* * *

Sansa and her procession left Castle Black the next day. Most of them had already left before Jon had woken. He stood between Eddie and Keran on the bridge between the gatehouse of Castle Black's southern gate, looking sullen as the last of them rode down the Kingsroad. "She said they were going to stay for a few days," Jon told them. 

"Maybe something came up?" Eddie offered.

"Maybe…”

"Don't dwell on it, Snow. We'll see them again." Keran said and patted Jon's shoulder.

"Jon?" Lord Commander Reed appeared up the stairs of the gatehouse, holding a thick bundle in his arms. "You weren't able to say goodbye to your sister?"

Jon shook his head. "No one told me they were leaving, my lord."

"Yes, well, it all happened very quickly. Queen Sansa said she had something important come up in the night and had to go. She left this with me to give to you." Reed held forward the bundle, and Jon took it from his hands.

As he inspected it further, he noticed the bundle was a newly made black, woollen cloak, delicately knitted together and finished with thick wolf fur at the neck. The leather strappings that held the cloak to the person, had the image of a direwolves head in the centre. Besides the direwolf, on either side, were more embossings of a raven with three eyes, and a short sword, identical to Arya's Needle, even down to the weirwood face on its pommel.

"Bloody hells!" Eddie exclaimed loudly. "Did the Queen go all the way to Volantis to get this made?"

Howland shook his head. "No, she said she—”

"Made it herself," Jon finished. He caressed the sigils on the leather tenderly.

"Gods, did she make all of us one?"

"I'm afraid not, Lord Eddie," Howland answered. "Jon, the Wildlings are leaving today too."

"I know," Jon replied.

Midday came when it was time for the Freefolk to leave. The day was chilly, and Jon chose to put on the new cloak Sansa had made, though, for some reason, he felt guilty even to wear it. Jon met the Freefolk in the courtyard near the tunnel, before they were to go under and out the other side. He saw Bramir and Isrik first, and thanked them for their help. Lok and Brena both gave Jon a great hug, telling Jon they wished he came with them, as did their daughter, the young Daya. After Jon hugged her, she had tears in her eyes and asked Jon: "Will you come visit?"

"I might," he answered, smiling. "The next day is as unclear as the next year."

Daya beamed at this. "Please do! We can hunt deer in the forest with Tormund, father and Ghost like before! It will be so difficult to get deer without Ghost helping us now."

Jon ruffled the girl's hair and laughed. "Are you kidding, you're the best of the Freefolk with a bow! Hunting deer is nothing for you, Daya." Jon put a finger on his lips. "But shh... Don't tell Val I said that."

Daya giggled and wrapped her arms around Jon one last time. Val came up to them and watched Daya run off to her mother and father inside the tunnel. "Don't tell Val what?" she asked Jon with a coy smirk.

"Daya is better than you with a bow," Jon admitted.

She punched his arm hard but laughed while she did it. "I know she is."

"Then why'd you punch me?"

"Because I can," Val grabbed Jon fiercely and held him close. "You should be with us."

"I want to be."

"Then why are you here!"

"You know why."

"Ugh!" Val groaned.

Jon cupped her face with a hand. "Take care of Tormund."

Val chuckled. "That big, ginger can take care of himself. Besides, I'm not going back to Mance."

Jon tilted his head. "Why? Where are you going?"

"Hardhome. Want to see if they need help. They haven't got as many people as we do in Mance, and I want to be close to the Wall."

"Why? Going to raid into the North?" said Jon slyly.

"Maybe I ought to. No! its to stay close to you, you fool!" Val forced Jon closer and kissed him hard. Jon felt her tongue dancing in his mouth, and when they parted, she gave him that smouldering grin that buckled his knees. "Don't do anything stupid, eh? I might see you sooner than you think, Jon Snow."

She broke the embrace suddenly and sauntered away, waving her hips as she walked. "How do you do it, Snow?" Tormund said, coming up beside Jon. "All these women all over you, Freefolk, southerners. I know it ain't ya pecker. How do you even ride the women with such a small thing?"

"Well I was always good at horse riding, riding dragons came easily. I guess it all just passed on to the women."

"Aye, you passed something onto the women, I'm sure!" Tormund bellowed with laughter and gave Jon a great bear hug. "Are you good here, Jon?" he asked after withdrawing from the embrace.

"I guess we'll see."

"We'll come by and visit sometime, maybe even stay a little longer, if the Commander and the Queen let us." Tormund suddenly lowered his voice. "Commander Crow asked you to inform on us, eh?"

Jon nodded.

"Bah, that's okay. I expected as much. You didn't tell anyone of our journey into the Lands of Always Winter though, did ya?"

"No," Jon said. That was something only for him and the Freefolk. At least for now.

"Good. That's a secret for us," Tormund said with a smile. "A great big fucking ice city is not something you see every day. I want the Freefolk to explore it themselves first."

"Be careful. That place was a death trap."

"I'm never careful, ha! But you, you be careful. I know the talk with your sister didn't go so well, she left early this morning without goodbyes."

"Yes, it was… different. We argued... we've argued in the past... but this time..."

"Brothers and sisters are like that. But Sansa, she cares for you Jon, and it's true that she feels bad for what she did."

"How do you know? Did you speak to her?"

Tormund shook his head sadly. "No, you don't need to talk to her to see the truth. It's right on her face when she looks at you. She only wants her brother back, and that's no bad thing."

"I'm not her brother though…”

"Jon," Tormund put a hand on his face. "You of all people know that a brother is not just blood." The men embraced once more, and, with sadness in the big man's eyes, Tormund left and disappeared into the tunnel and beyond the Wall.

As Jon stood alone, looking into the darkness of the tunnel, he glanced down to the cloak wrapped around him and held it tighter. He already missed Tormund, Val, Daya and the rest. But mostly, he missed Sansa, her wit, her smile, her blue eyes and her warm hugs. She had come and gone so soon, and he had taken it for granted. He yearned to see her once more and just say to her: "I forgive you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I put a little further insight into what I think happened to the seasons after the Long Night (I believe GRRM said that the long seasons are a cause of magic, so I've associated that to the NK.) And I threw in a little tease about what's further beyond the Wall. ;)
> 
> I've also introduced Val, a character from the books, but I've changed it slightly so that she was in the background of the show, rather than what she was in the books. Trying to meld both books and show can be difficult sometimes


	7. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm's End plays host to a wedding and tourney, though Tyrion's mind lies elsewhere with looming threats, both from home and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Hope you are all staying healthy and that this chapter can help relieve some boredom many of us are experiencing. This chapter is likely UNFINISHED as there is still much to add, but I thought I would post it to get your opinions on it so far and also because I am taking too long to finish it, lol. Though I am uncertain if I will continue the story in this chapter in Tyrion's POV or in another, such as Sansa or Estyr's. The whole chapter was planned to be Tyrion's POV though it has become a lot larger than initially thought given that there is a wedding and tourney to take place and a few interesting moments in those. More story elements are making me think a Sansa POV would be more suitable, however. Anyhoot, please let me know what you think of it. I'm going back to playing Animal Crossing for now :)

"What about Lysara?" asked Bronn before throwing a handful of grapes in his mouth.

"No," Tyrion replied.

"Why not?" the grapes squelched in Bronn's mouth as he talked between chewing. "You can see the Valyrian in her."

"She's a whore, Bronn."

"Not just any whore, but a Lyseni whore."

Tyrion Lannister — the Hand of the King, shook his head disdainfully. He brought the bronze goblet to his lips and attempted to drink yet more of the Arbor Gold wine that sloshed in the cup as the carriage they travelled in, rocked across the Kingsroad. He shared this journey with Lord Bronn Blackwater, Master of Coin and Lord of Highgarden. Bronn dressed fancily, as he often did these days. His black hair, slick back against his scalp and his thin beard delicately cut and pampered. The Lord of Highgarden no longer wore armour, be it a padded doublet or mail, though he still hung a sword by his side, this one of castle forged steel ordered specially for himself by the best smith in King's Landing. He strapped it to his waist with a leather belt that had no adornments aside from the bronze buckle. He dressed in fine velvets, a blue tunic under a sable vest, brown pants and leather boots. Clasping his emerald coloured cloak below his throat was a pin, adorned with the sigil of House Blackwater — a green, flaming chain on a smoking grey field. Tyrion, in contrast, wore his black gambeson, clasped with bronze fastenings in the centre, over black trousers and leather boots. Over his left breast, he adorned the sigil of his office — the golden pin of the Hand of the King.

After leaving Bronzegate almost two days ago, they were nearing Storm's End, by Ser Brienne's last estimate, and the day was bright. A cloudless blue sky graced their journey, with happy chirps of birds and the noise of a king's procession racketing along the weary road. It was mere thirty people that left King's Landing — knights, squires, servants, and the handful of the Small Council lords. Though, that number grew to near one hundred, with the addition of people seeking the safety of the king's cavalcade — farmers, butchers, armourers, saddlers, and bakers all with the prospect of coin for their wares, wet on their lips. Then came the free riders, knights and lords of the Stormlands that joined the king and his parade down the Kingsroad. These people were intent to revel in the celebration, fights, feasts and lasciviousness of Gendry Baratheon's wedding, and the tourney to take place after.

“Since when have you turned down a whore anyway? You need yourself a woman, my Lord Hand," Bronn continued, throwing a few more grapes in his mouth. "Help get all that stress out of you. Blocked up from brain to balls you are."

"I do not need a woman," said Tyrion curtly. "I am Hand of the King. If I am not stressed, I am not doing my job."

"Well, you ain't enjoying it as much as you did when you were Hand last time. You revelled in it, all that scheming and lying and games you lords loved to do, and everyone was trying to kill you back then. Now you are an old moppy shit, keep carry on like this and you'll be a one-inch cock — useless."

"Fine words, as always. All things considered, I think I am doing quite well. Besides, this appointment was not my first choice, nor was it my last. Being Hand of the King again was never even on my list of things to do before I drown myself in wine."

"No, you've got to thank our gracious king for that. Wonder how he is doing in Anders’s company. Odd company to keep on such a long journey, eh?"

"Anders Allyrion is a Yronwood loyalist, as is his father and their House. There is a reason King Bran keeps close company to him."

Bronn gave a scornful laugh. "His Grace named Anders the _Master of Whispers_. The man sucks up to Prince Olyvar ass any chance he gets. If he whispers to the Small Council, he’s gonna whisper to the Prince of Dorne, and you lot think he is no good. Seems counter-intuitive."

"That's a big word for you," Tyrion mocked slyly. "Our king knows this, Bronn. But it will take more than whispers to deceive Bran the Broken. He intends to have Olyvar Yronwood, his House, and all their loyalists believe that they are in the king's good graces. But the truth is far different. Prince Olyvar grows ever paranoid, however, as does his ruthlessness. And we cannot stand for that."

"Then send a bloody army. Put the Yronwoods in line or put those Daynes in Sunspear. They seem to love that blistering hole."

Tyrion glared at Bronn lazily. "We do not have a strong army that we can levy. Years of war and destruction tend to do that. If we send a force into Dorne, it will not intimidate anyone."

"Of course it won’t. But you don't need a strong army for everything. Sometimes all it takes is good commanders to clear the field of shit heel morons. Especially against the Dornish with how they fight. Best fucking luck finding good commanders though."

"You could be a good commander."

Bronn shook his head quickly. "Get fucked, no more of that for me. I'm living the high life now. Nothing but wealth, wine and women. What about the North? Ask for their help? Their queen is our king's sister."

"Seems we might be on that path already. Bran has a plan that involves Queen Sansa, though I doubt she is aware of it. And there have been whispers from Essos, pieces moving and people forming. Our king believes Sansa will have much to do with it, as well as Dorne."

"If that dragon is involved in any way, I'm fucking out," Bronn said immediately, motioning a hand through the air to mimic a cut.

Tyrion smiled. "If only I were so lucky. Drogon would love to eat me all up. I bet I look like a nice roast chicken to him."

"Don't give me more of your self-pity cunt," Bronn chastened. "Speaking of pity, you looking forward to seeing her again? Your wife, _the Queen in the North_?"

"We are no longer married," Tyrion leaned over to the table and poured himself more wine, continuing as he did. "You know, I haven't been with a woman since I married Sansa."

Bronn guffawed. "Fuck me! Is it that bad? Well, maybe you don’t need a whore, maybe you need a _queen_ , eh? She hasn't remarried. A few drinks after Lord Baratheon's wedding might loosen you two up. Finally, consummate your vows."

Tyrion tilted his head back, downing a gulp of wine. "From what we've heard out of the North, men... marriage, they seem to be the last thing Sansa cares about."

"Give me an hour with her, and I'll change her mind," remarked Bronn.

Their arrival to Storm's End was met with a blast of horns from the walls of the imposing stronghold of pale grey stone, unweathered by the sea or storm. The castle rested on the bluffs of Duran's Point, and its single immense tower stood in the centre of the curtain wall — one hundred and fifty foot of thick stone, where the wind would find no passage. The tower itself was a colossal sight, the only tower in the whole castle yet it was a massive drum of smooth curving stone that rose four-hundred feet and seemed half as wide as the Red Keep of the Captial. Golden Baratheon banners danced faintly in the wind on the battlements atop the formidable tower. Strangely, this castle reminded Tyrion of Winterfell. _Perhaps it's the dull grey and imminent threat of doom the castle gives off._ He thought as they passed through the portcullis and beneath the gatehouse.

Inside the castle, hanging high from the inner walls, were the muscular black stags on the fields of more Baratheon banners. The golden velvet standards rippled above the courtyards along with white silk streamers adorned with embroidery of the seven-sided star of the Faith of the Seven, or stags and deer leaping happily together. They hung across the inner walls, over archways and across the wooden buildings reminding everyone of the splendour of their lord's wedding. The courtyards were alive with people — singers such as Baeleon of Tarth. The old man, Hamish the Harper. The once royal bard, Orland of Oldtown. Rymund the Rhymer. These minstrels fluttered through the crowds of the castle and amongst the king's procession itself, singing, plucking their harps, or blowing their flutes to a cacophonic melody that seemed to all intertwine together. Hog farmers, whores, septas and septons alike wondered about the castle amongst the commoners and servants. Merchants set up their stores. Armourer's apprentices raced through the courtyards peddling their master's wares to any who looked rich enough. Knights and their squires, free riders and warriors of little renown, or filled with self-importance, jostled to the massive training yard that Lord Baratheon had transformed into a jousting arena. These men marked with a fervent desire to put their names forward for the lists, the archery or the melee events in the days that would follow the wedding and claim the gold and glory for the titles. 

Tyrion recognised a handful of the knights and lords and their heraldry — Passing by Tyrion’s carriage was Edmure Tully standing out from the rest in glimmering plate adorned with leaping trouts, riding beside his wife and son and encircled by the Blackwoods — Brynden, Edmund and Alyn. Ser Lewys Piper, Ser Hugo and Ellery Vance. Ser Garret Paege. And the old landed knight, Ser Harys Haigh and his son Ser Walder. From the Reach, Tyrion spotted Mathis Rowan, standing beneath his golden tree banner with his wife and two of his daughters. Alyn Ambrose led his horse by its muzzle through the lists. Lords Varner, Beesbury, Appleton and Costayne of the Reach mixed amongst them. A small selection of Knights from the Vale passed by the lists, already having signed themselves on to the tourney, leading them was Lord Robin Arryn in between Lord Yon Royce and sitting high in his specially made saddle, Ser Roland Waynwood. Stormlords stood proud, showing off the strength of their great castle — The now fat-bellied Ser Herbert Bolling was laughing at his squire who failed at saddling a horse. Lord Sebastion Errol and Ser Addam Whitehead looked on, displeased. The only son of Cortnay Penrose, Endrew, conversed amongst other lords, knights and their squires — Rogers, Gower and Horpe. Finally, a small number of Dornishmen arrived last into the tourney grounds, they came to the wedding at the invite of King Bran, though Tyrion was surprised any of them turned up. At the head was Anders Allyrion’s father, Ryon Allyrion, two men beside him each carried a banner, one holding the golden hand of House Allyrion, the other the black castle portcullis of House Yronwood. Lord Gerris Drinkwater rode in behind, followed closely by the two knights of House Dalt of Lemonwood, Deziel and Andrey Dalt. And strangely to Tyrion, between them rode Sylva Santagar, the heiress to Spottswood.

Tyrion sighed and closed the curtain of his carriage, dwelling on the thought of what the coming days may bring. Soon enough his carriage came to a stop at the foot of the Great Tower, Tyrion followed Bronn, jumping out to an array of servants, squires, Riverlanders and Valemen just dismounting their horses, or readying themselves for the arrival of the King. Littered amongst the centre was a select few Stormlords, including Cortnay Penrose, standing tall with a stern face and red beard. Selwyn of Tarth looking much older now due to his heavy weight resting on a walking stick. In juxtaposition beside the Lord of Tarth was the thin lord, Aemon Estermont. In the middle, proud and smiling wide was the lord of the hour, Gendry Baratheon. Much in the image of his father, Robert Baratheon, Gendry had let his hair grow out and wore a golden velvet tunic underneath a padded vest decorated with stags on each breast, reeling on their hind legs. To his right was a young woman Tyrion did not recognise. She looked at least the same age as Gendry, with flowing dark brown hair and a long face. The tawny gown she wore, embroidered with white quills, highlighted her dark beauty and she stood confidently, making herself as tall as the rest. It did not take long for Tyrion to realise that this young woman was likely the Lord of Storm's End's wife to be. Finally, on Gendry's left was the Queen in the North. Sansa adorned herself in a grey dress garnished with red stitching of weirwood leaves, over which was a steel breastplate polished to a shine. A snarling direwolf pauldron aloft her left shoulder and on her scalp, resting on her plaited red hair, was the iron direwolf crown Tyrion had heard so much of.

"She going to battle?" Bronn whispered to Tyrion, speaking of Sansa.

"Let's hope not," Tyrion responded.

"I think she's just showing off."

"And you don't? The second you became a lord, you ditched all your clothes for some fancy silks and velvets."

"Course I did, wanted to be comfortable, didn't I? And I had the dragons and stags to pay for it. Doesn't mean I was showing off."

"You're a sellsword, Bronn. You're always showing off."

" _Former_ sellsword."

The King was lifted from his gilded carriage and wheeled through the yard towards Gendry and his lords. As he moved the king in his wheelchair, the sun gleamed off Podrick's golden armour, crested with a three-eyed raven in the centre of the breastplate. Lord Commander Ser Brienne of Tarth led them, her tall unmistakable gait with the clanging, gleaming armour was a worthy sight. Tyrion joined them as they passed him and Bronn, thankful that he was quick enough to miss Anders Allyrion who came in next to Bronn along with two other Kingsguard — Ser Alyn Estermont and Ser Horas Costayne. Bran himself glimmered with his gilded crown, and the bright sun lightened the dark blue doublet he wore, tied in its centre with gold fastenings. The whole courtyard began to kneel at the arrival of their king. Though, Sansa, being the only Northerner present and a queen, did not kneel to her younger brother. But when they stopped just before Gendry and his company, Tyrion welcomed the warm smile Sansa gave him when their eyes made contact.

Bran did not leave them kneeling for long before he spoke. "Please, stand. There is much celebration to be had and little time for kneeling." Brandon the Broken was a distant king, Tyrion knew it. Just as he was in Winterfell before his reign, Bran spoke rarely, and when he did, it was with few words and little detail — sometimes offering truly perplexing comments out of nowhere. Though his time as king seemed to lighten him some, whether that was because Bran was more used to his _abilities_ as the Three-Eyed Raven, or because he simply learned to have more of a personality over time, Tyrion did not know. He was grateful for it, however, as it made holding court back in King's Landing all that more manageable with a king that the people could talk to.

All those who knelt, followed Gendry after he rose to his feet, he stepped forward and gave Bran a short bow. "Good to see you, Your Grace. Welcome to Storm's End. I hope it is suitable for your first visit."

"I have been here many times," Bran responded, and the group just gawked, uncertain of what to say. "It is good to see you too, Lord Gendry. Your home is beautiful, as is your wife to be."

"Oh yeah," Gendry cleared his throat. "Your Grace, my lords, this is Lady Elyse Penrose." Gendry guided the young woman forward, and she did a quick curtsy to everyone. Upon the opportunity to look at her closer, Tyrion noticed that Lady Elyse Penrose had the stubborn look of her father, Cortnay Penrose, yet the familiar long face, dark, deep-set eyes and dark hair of someone from Gendry's past. Tyrion understood precisely why Gendry chose Elyse as his wife...

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my king," she said to Bran. "I am honoured to have both a king and queen in my new home."

"You won’t be saying that once we’ve eaten all your food." Came Sansa's voice as she stepped up next to Gendry and his future wife with a broad smile on her face. The sun glimmered off her crown and her breastplate almost blindingly. “Your Grace,” Sansa said to Bran.

"Your Grace," Bran responded in kind. “You brought your ward?”

"I did," Sansa answered curtly. Then, Queen Sansa threw out all customs and chose to hug her brother king. He welcomed her embrace, and no one decided to interrupt them. Though when they parted, Tyrion knew the time for greetings was over. The days coming were not only for celebration and festivities but for meetings and council of war and schemes that Tyrion wished he had no part in. 

"Should we head inside? There is much to do, after all." Tyrion offered.

"So soon, my lord?" said Elyse. "Would you all not like a tour of the castle yards? I've found beauty in the months I've spent here. It isn't just grey walls, I assure you."

Tyrion smiled at her. "It has been a long journey, my lady, and there is much to discuss before your wedding tomorrow night. I'm sure we will take a tour in the coming days."

"The coming days will be full of drunk men and tourney fighting. But _I am_ sure sitting in your carriage all journey _must_ have been tiring," Elyse replied bluntly. “So I understand, my Lord Hand.”

Tyrion caught the small grin on Sansa's lips, but it was Bran who spoke. "Lord Tyrion is right, my lady. We will move inside and settle from our journey."

Storm's End's single tower, the _Great Tower_ , was such a grand feat of construction that, as Tyrion ascended the levels of the tower, he passed by an armoury on one level, the next was a feast hall, above that a barracks and a then set of chambers for guests and family. What’s more, is that all these seemed to have plenty of room in all the quarters and halls and chambers for far more. When they finally reached the level they sought, Gendry led them into a large, nearly bare hall that he called the Round Hall, likely because it was round, and was a hall, Tyrion mused. The hall seemed to act as Storm's End's type of throne room, given due to a dais at the back with a throne of grey stone upon it, once belonging to the Storm King’s of old. (It undoubtedly matched the grey stone walls of the room and the whole place, despite its size and space, gave Tyrion an ill feeling of claustrophobia.) Heavy wooden tables and chairs sparsely littered around the hall, as did several windows along the walls, giving view to the blue sea to the east and the green lands to the west. A large hearth, built into the stone, curving on the east side wall, lit and warmed the room and Tyrion could feel the heat emanating from its great fire, even several feet away from where he walked by it. He sauntered along next to Queen Sansa and Ser Brienne pushing King Bran. With Lord Gendry and Lady Elyse leading them towards the back of the hall where a young, dark-haired girl in fine leathers and a man in steel direwolf crested armour stood before the dais. Tyrion noticed that the two seemed to be playing a game called Red Hands. They held their hands in front of themselves, in a prayer-like position. One would swing at the other's hand in an attempt to slap it hard. The other would need to be quick enough and move their hands away before that could happen. If they were successful, it would be their turn to take a swing. 

It seemed to be the man's turn to swing at his little opponent, but it was a heavy and slow swing, and the girl was far too quick for him. He cursed when he missed, and the girl giggled.

"My turn," she said joyfully. "Who was winning again?"

"Don't rub it in now, you wicked thing. You should be humble in your victory," the man groaned.

"I should be… but there’s no fun in that," suddenly the girl swung and slapped the man's hands with such ferocity, the foul curse he yelled made Tyrion jolt in his step.

"Aberdale, are you losing again?" Sansa said as she and the group stopped before the two.

"Aye, Your Grace, aye." Aberdale sighed.

The girl grinned whimsically. "Truly, Queen Sansa, I don't understand why Aberdale is your captain. He is just _so_ slow!"

"Careful girl, if you weren't the queen's ward, I'd give you a hidin'!" Aberdale Growled.

"Well, you've got to catch me first, big man. I don't think that's happening."

"You keep speaking like that, and I might just let Aberdale hit you a few times in a place other than your hands," Sansa said sternly. "That is not the way I taught you to speak, is it Estyr?"

The girl — Estyr, looked abashed. "No, my queen. I must always be courteous and respectful, even to my enemies. Courtesy is a lady's armour. That is what you taught me."

"Good," Sansa said, pleased. "It's been some time, but you should remember Lord Tyrion, Ser Brienne and King Bran."

"I do. Ser, my lord. Your Grace." As if just remembering, Estyr gave them all a quick curtsy. "It is a pleasure to see you all."

Tyrion grinned. "Curtsies don’t suit the leathers you're wearing. But you've certainly improved your manners since last we spoke in the Red Keep, Estyr. I do recall that you were born in Dorne, yes?"

Estyr looked at him suspiciously. “Yes…”

"And Dorne is still a part of the Six Kingdoms last I checked. The kingdoms Bran the Broken is _our_ king of."

Tyrion was surprised by how quick Estyr picked up on what he was meaning. She grimaced, "I'm a Northerner now."

A sudden small giggle came from Lady Elyse. "Oh, a Northmen and a Dornishmen? I've never met a commoner that was _both._ Come child, His Grace is your king."

Tyrion saw the flash of anger that marked Estyr's eyes as the Dornish girl stared at Elyse. But rather than let it out, she straightened herself and said: "Have you met many commoners, my lady?" Tyrion flicked his sights to Lady Elyse, whose lips went thin and angry at Estyr's comment. "I am sure marrying into a great family makes it all much simpler for you, Lady Elyse." Estyr continued. "But it was never simple for me. I ask for you and King Bran's forgiveness, but Winterfell is my home now, and Sansa Stark is my queen."

Elyse Penrose, soon to be Baratheon, glowered at Estyr. "You may dress and act like a noble, but you are still a commoner, Estyr of wherever." Elyse turned on her and spoke to everyone curtly. “If you would excuse me, I have a wedding to finish planning.”

As Elyse hurried from the hall, Tyrion spotted the faintest grin on Estyr. “You enjoy taunting people?” He asked.

“It’s all in a bit of fun,” Estyr replied, her grin turned sly and she took her attention to Gendry. "Are you marrying her because she looks like Arya, my lord?" Gendry looked on wide-eyed and startled, and Tyrion did his best to stifle his sudden laugh.

"Hardly appropriate, Estyr," Sansa said, though her tone suggested to Tyrion that she thought the same as the Dornish girl.

"I married her because she is a good woman," Gendry said sternly. "And her father's support will go along way..."

"Of course," both Sansa and Estyr said the words at the same time, both with a coy grin.

"How do you like Winterfell, Estyr?" Bran asked suddenly.

Estyr smiled at him. "It can be a bit cold, Your Grace, but I like it."

"There is much history to Winterfell and the North," Bran said. "Just as there is much history to Dorne and your former home there. I understand why you see yourself as a Northerner now, but you should not forget where you came from, and what it means." 

Estyr's eyes went sharp as she began to study Bran with a piercing curiosity and Tyrion himself took the opportunity to listen hard on what the girl had to say, though he was surprised by her reaction. "Is there truth to what people say about you, Your Grace?" She began. "That you can see all the past, present and future?"

A thin smile came to Bran. "I see quite a lot."

"Can you see my past? Where I come from, the people who saved me, who died for me for no reason?"

"There is always a reason," Bran said calmly. "Perhaps now is not the best time or place to discuss that. We have council."

It was several moments until Estyr begrudgingly accepted her removal from the room so that the council may take place. She defied the first request for her to leave, saying that she wanted to speak to Bran further. When that failed, she clung to Gendry, offering kind words and flashes of her smile, hoping the Stormlord would allow her to stay. Though when he refused, Estyr finally pleaded with Sansa, saying that because Sansa let her join in council at Winterfell, Estyr ought to join this one. But after several stern words of discouragement from _her queen_ , Estyr — frustrated such that it was humouring to Tyrion — left the hall with Captain Aberdale. Subsequent to their leaving, the rest of the Small Council appeared in the Round Hall. Grandmaester Samwell Tarly entered, slugging along in a heavy blue maester’s robe that was too big for him and carrying books, and around his neck as usual, his thick maester's chain of ringed metals that clinked and rang with every step. He smiled wide, rattling everybody's (particularly Sansa's) ears with the events of the journey and how much his wife Gilly and their sons Sam and Jon enjoyed the countryside. Bronn came in next, cutting slices off an apple with a small knife and throwing them in his mouth as he casually greeted people. Anders Allyrion followed him, the Master of Whispers seemed to slide across the floor in slender golden robes, trimmed with red lace. As he entered and met with the room, he gave particular attention to Sansa. Tyrion could not hear the words between the two, but he could see Sansa's disinterested expression comparative to the slyness of Anders’s. At the close of their conversation, Lord Allyrion slid a swift hand forward and grabbed Sansa's, placing a soft kiss on the back of her hand. She let him do it, though she was quick to take her hand back. Tyrion allowed a smile at the event, then jolted slightly when a palm clasped his shoulder.

"Now why couldn't we have a nice trip and celebration without one of these fucking meetings?" Bronn said from beside him.

"You wanted to be a great lord; this is what that role entails," Tyrion answered. "It's a bit late to be complaining."

"I'm not complaining."

"You should look up the definition of the word because it certainly sounds like that's what you're doing.

"All I'm saying, is that all these cunts think they are the smartest cunts in the room. It can be tiring," said Bronn.

"Do you include yourself in that equation?" Tyrion asked, amused.

Bronn chuckled and patted his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "My lord, if I weren't a smart cunt, I'd have died a long time ago." 

Tyrion gave a smile once more and Bronn snickered, then left to take a seat at the table that Gendry had prepared in the Round Hall. It was a large table made from a sentinel tree, so wide and long it was more than enough to seat two Small Councils. As the other lords and the Queen in the North took their seats, Lord Davos Seaworth and Lady Belynda Rowan finally entered and took their places. Though the freckles on Belynda's face assumed innocence, it was often stern, as she was a woman with an inherent disposition to justice. The third and oldest daughter of Mathis Rowan and Bethany Redwyne, Lady Belynda came from two of the strongest Houses in the Reach and was sought out by Bran himself, to ask her to become the Six Kingdom's new Master of Laws.

When all were seated, Tyrion stood next to King Bran in his chair and spoke. "My lords, my ladies. Your Graces. Thank you all for being here for this sudden council, there are matters that need our attention. We are here at Lord Baratheon's pleasure, and it is important that he hears what we discuss today. Though many of you may be wondering why the Queen in the North is a part of this council. That is because our king believes what we address will involve the North, and we are nothing but allies to our northern brethren. And this wedding offers us a unique opportunity for our kingdoms to speak and work together." Tyrion smiled and gestured languidly toward the other end of the table, where Sansa and Gendry sat. Then he turned to Bran. "Your Grace..."

King Bran did not butter his words. "There is movement in Essos. Sellsword armies are gathering under a single banner."

"That won't last," Bronn told it matter-of-factly.

"It did with the Golden Company," replied Davos.

"Not the same. It would take a lot of fucking coin and smart man to join sellsword companies together that have been fighting each other for years."

"That is exactly what they have," remarked Tyrion. “The leader of the Second Sons has gained considerable wealth and has managed to join his company with three others, possibly more. Their alliance shows no sign of breaking."

"Do you think they could be a threat?" Lord Commander Brienne asked.

King Bran nodded. "I believe their target to be Westeros." 

"Are you certain, Your Grace?" asked Lady Belynda.

"I have seen them, and we have other reports. Lord Anders?"

The thin Dornish lord cleared his throat and spoke in his silky voice. "I have heard murmurs from whores in the Free Cities who often get sellswords for clientele. They say many men are looking for a great sellsword army to the east just before Dragon's Bay. They also tell me, that word is; Westeros is weak and plentiful."

"How many is this army meant to have?" asked Brienne.

"Uncertain, but if they keep gathering, it could go as high as twenty thousand," Anders answered curtly.

"For fuck sake," Lord Davos blurted. "Could this planet not go without a war for one year?" The table filled with murmurs and oft glances, though Tyrion noticed the intensity in Sansa's eyes as she seemed to stare off into the distance, deep in thought. Then she blinked and spoke.

"Who leads them?" Sansa asked. 

The way she asked the question, made Tyrion think she already knew the answer but he gave it to her regardless. "They claim to work together, sharing the leadership, Your Grace. Though, upon King Bran's inspections, Daario Naharis seems to be the one making the final decisions, being the one who founded the army. He is the leader of the Second Sons."

"And one of Daenerys Targaryen's former commanders," Sansa added dully. "They will come North?"

"They may," Bran answered

Lord Anders chortled. "What could they possibly want with the North? There are no riches in those lands. Meaning no offence Queen Sansa."

"There is one," Bran replied, staring directly at Sansa as he did. Sansa averted her gaze and stood from her chair, she ambled from the table, stopping before a nearby window.

"Well, they won't get far, even with twenty thousand men," Bronn stated.

"Even if we were to join with the North, our total numbers would be less than ten thousand. Am I right, Lord Commander?" Davos said.

Brienne nodded. "We received figures last month from the kingdoms regarding how many men they can each levy. The greatest come from the Reach, the Riverlands and here in the Stormlands. But with all the recent wars, even their numbers are low. And given the civil war in Dorne--"

"There is no civil war in Dorne, Ser Brienne," Lord Anders cut in. "A few rowdy lesser houses is not a war. Even our king agrees."

Scowling at Anders, Brienne cleared her throat and continued. "Even still, their figures cannot be reliable. So the number of men we can levy to defend Westeros will be minor compared to whatever comes from Essos."

"It's got nothing to do with numbers," Bronn spat. "You could send fifty thousand men into the North, and they'll gain about as much land as their three-inch cocks. They'll either attack from the sea or gain a foothold in the Six Kingdoms and leave the North till last."

"Are you the Master of Coin, or the Master of War?" Brienne scolded.

"As much as I hate to admit it, Lord Blackwater is right, Ser Brienne," Sansa spoke evenly as she gazed out the window to the eastern sea below the castle, crashing upon the rocks of Duran's Point. "The North is impenetrable. It has never been conquered. And it will not be conquered while I am Queen. I don't know Daario Naharis, but given what he has accomplished and his previous roles, I gather that he isn't a stupid man. He won't risk his army on a futile attack on the North. He may do as Lord Blackwater suggested, but I would not put him beyond infiltration attempts, both in the North and the Six Kingdoms."

"What do you suggest?" asked Bran.

Sansa turned and walked back over to the table. "Prepare our armies as best we can. If Westeros is a target for these sellswords, then battles are inevitable no matter how they intend to begin the war. We should keep an eye on the Narrow Sea, checking any ships and their colours, as well as being careful of traders, whalers and mummer troupes from Essos that could act as spies for Daario Naharis. I have a fleet of twenty ships at White Harbor that I will have patrol the Narrow Sea on our eastern border. The castles and forts of Ramsgate, Widow's Watch and Karhold will also be keeping a weather eye on waters. And I'll ask the Night's Watch if they can do the same at Eastwatch by the Sea."

"A good plan," Bran said. "We should do the same. From the Salt Shore to the Three Sisters, the Narrow Sea will be observed. Lord Davos, how does the Royal Fleet look?"

Davos thought for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, with the recent income of timber from the Wolfswood, courtesy of Queen Sansa, it will allow us to continue building. Once those ships are finished, we will have thirty-four in our fleet."

"Very well. Lord Gendry, I ask that you advise your lords to keep a particular eye open. The Islands of Taarth and Estermont will be of great value to our needs."

"' Course, Your Grace," Gendry said enthusiastically. "I'll have them send me weekly reports, anything that I feel is urgent, I'll forward to King's Landing."

"Isn't this all a bit much, eh?" Bronn interjected. "I mean, forgive me, Your Grace. But couldn't you just watch the sellswords with your _abilities_ like you've been doing?"

"Yes, I could," Bran admitted. "But I have six kingdoms to rule, and I cannot be everywhere at once. If I were to focus on Essos, I would be abandoning my kingdoms and its injustices. Such as the injustice you recently committed, Lord Bronn."

"What?" Bronn threw out, perplexed.

"You have increased the tax in the Reach by five times as much as it was. Why?"

"Well I've got food to give to the Capital, I've got to pay for a way to transport it all don't I?”

"My investigation suggests that your increase of; seventy-five silver stags or fifty golden dragons, is far too excessive," Lady Belynda told it. "As Master of Coin, my lord, you should know this. Unfortunately, I have also heard reports that you may even be keeping the excess gold for yourself, rather than paying it forward to those working the transports or the fields."

"Is that right?" Bronn said, visibly annoyed. "I'm the Lord Paramount of the Reach, your liege lord, Belynda. You should be telling me all this."

Bran spoke in a hard voice. "Lady Belynda is doing her role as Master of Laws. You, however, are abusing your powers as a lord. Lower the tax and pay your people their coin."

"Or what!"

"Or I will strip every title from you, and you will be less than a sellsword."

Tyrion looked on, as Bronn uncomfortably straightened himself in his chair. Lord Bronn said nothing more, but Tyrion knew that his silence meant his acceptance of King Bran's judgment. _Not such a smart cunt, Bronn_ , thought Tyrion with a smirk.

"If everyone is finished, I believe this concludes today's council," Tyrion said.

"I'm not," Sansa stated, still standing before the table. "King Bran, have you any word of Drogon?"

"I last saw him flying beyond the Shadowlands," Bran answered.

"Word is you've thrown some of those scorpions up on the battlements of Winterfell. Worried he might come back and roast your little crown?" Bronn said scathingly, his tone was marked by irritation due to the reprimand he had just received.

Before Sansa could rebuke Bronn, Grandmaester Samwell put a hand forward. "If I may... Queen Sansa is perfectly rational to fear Drogon coming back, as should we all be. Archmaester Ebrose and I agree that Drogon's time in Essos could be a form of mourning and _soul searching_ to an extent. Dragons are believed to be intelligent creatures; some have the opinion that they are more intelligent than men. So, perhaps once he is done in Essos, he could seek vengeance or answers for what happened to his mother."

"Jon killed his mother, that's what happened," Davos said frankly.

Samwell nodded hurriedly "Yes, yes, but it is the path to those events transpiring that Drogon may soon come to dwell on if he's not done so already. Men do the same thing, it is the unanswered, the unknown that we fear, that we strive to know and understand. And those events Drogon could dwell on, unfortunately, include most of us in this room. Queen Sansa far more, given her direct involvement in Daenerys Targaryen's death. So really, the question of Drogon’s whereabouts and how best we defend ourselves, grow more important every day."

"Long as he stays away, I don’t care to talk about him,” said Bronn sourly. “Seeing a dragon once in my life is more than enough. And all this philosophy talk isn’t going to matter, because if he does come back, we're all fucked. A few scorpions won't stop him. Trust me, I shot the fucker and it didn’t so much as tickle him.”

“My men won’t miss,” Sansa said.

“I’m sure Cersei thought the same. She had an entire city full of scorpions and that big fucker learnt how to beat ‘em. He was faster, smarter and angrier, and now Cersei is dead. So unless you got something special hidden away in that fancy breastplate, I wouldn’t bet on you.”

“I must agree with Lord Bronn, Your Grace,” Anders slithered in. “Given what happened to King’s Landing, the likelihood of Winterfell surviving a dragon attack are not considerable in the least. But I hear tell that your sister is a great hero, she slew the Night King? Why not a dragon, hmm?”

“Arya Stark is a great hero, but she has done more than enough. When she returns from the west, she will return to a peaceful home. Not to a war. Dragons or not.” Sansa’s face showed no sign of apprehensiveness, anger or annoyance. It was as stoic as Tyrion could have ever seen it. “Now, I do appreciate your concern, my lords. But it is unnecessary. If Drogon comes to Winterfell, he will die at Winterfell.”

"I wish I had your confidence, Your Grace," Davos said after a short silence. “I think I’m about done with all this talk of dragons though.”

“Agreed,” Tyrion added. "This council is over. Keep in mind what we have spoken about today, it could be years before anything happens regarding the sellsword army, if it ever does. But we must remain vigilant for the time being. Lord Gendry, Queen Sansa, if you would stay a moment. We have received word from Lady Arya."

The mismatched members of the Small Council began to leave. Bronn stepped out on his own in a brusque pace. Anders Allyrion shuffled next to Lady Belynda, whispering in her ear. Samwell, Davos and Brienne all walked together from the hall in an intent conversation, leaving a king, a queen and two unlikely lords alone in the dull grey room.

Gendry rose from his chair as soon as the last left, and the door to the hall closed hard. "Word from Arya?"

Tyrion shook his head sadly. "No, sorry, Gendry. I said that to mask the real reason Bran, and I ask you here."

Gendry could not hide the disappointment in his eyes. "Oh... so nothing from Arya's or her ship since that letter from Tessa Fairmanne?"

"Can you not see her, Bran?" Sansa added, her eyes full of pleading for her sister's whereabouts.

"I'm afraid not," Tyrion answered. "Bran has tried to see her, but..."

"I lost her when Grey Wind went into the storm. I've not been able to see her since," Bran said sullenly. "I'm sorry, Sansa."

She looked to the floor a moment, hiding her face, then tentatively removed the iron crown from her plaited red hair and placed it on the table before her. "You have us here regarding Estyr and Dorne, I imagine."

"Yes," said Bran. "Tyrion knows about Estyr. It is time Gendry knew too."

"What should I know?" Gendry asked with uncertainty.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Gendry, the Dornish girl, Sansa's ward... She is not the common girl that she would like everyone to think she is."

"Yeah, I knew that. I ain't stupid."

"Precisely why we trust you," Tyrion jested. "Though she is more than a lost lady, she is Estyr Martell, the Princess of Dorne."

"Princess! Dorne! Bloody... I thought she was just a lady who didn't want to be a lady, like Arya, you know? A princess though... does this have something to do with the unrest in Dorne?"

"It has everything to do with it," Tyrion said. "And it is a civil war, not unrest, no matter how much Lord Anders may deny it, it always will be a civil war. Estyr's existence is known to many of the houses who fight against Prince Olyvar's rule, though some believe she is either long dead or simply a story. Yet we have reason to believe that Prince Olyvar and his allies do not know much of Estyr, they don't know her name, what she looks like or where she is... though, that may very well change today." Tyrion caught Sansa's eye, and she quickly glanced away. "Why did you bring Estyr here, Sansa? A Dornish girl amongst Northmen will stand out, and there are Dornishmen here, loyal to the Yronwoods, and not just Anders Allyrion. I don't doubt that you knew they would be here." 

"I did," Sansa admitted. She walked backed to the window she stood at earlier and continued. "I'm glad they're here. I want them to see her. I want them to know that a Dornish Princess exists and for that word to spread. She has been hidden away for too long, and if the civil war in Dorne is too end in our favour, then the houses fighting against Prince Olyvar need a figure they can fight for, that they can see and believe in, or else it will wither down and die out, as it has already begun to do with the siege of Starfall."

Tyrion grew aggravated. "You are putting Estyr, and yourself at great risk. Not only from attacks by Olyvar, but we would not put it beyond him to hire Faceless Men to kill the girl and you too."

"Arya was a Faceless Man. You think I didn't ask her all about them?"

"You may know what they can do Sansa, but you will never see them do it. Arya is proof of that."

"Okay, hold on!" Gendry interrupted. "Can someone bloody explain all this to me. I was told all the Martells were dead, and now there's suddenly a child? Why are you doing all this for Dorne? Why am I involved now? And what happened to Starfall?"

It was Bran who answered Gendry, in his calm monotone way. "Estyr was born into a life of hiding and was taught early on of the importance of staying hidden. Doran Martell had his last child protected in his castle, as his body withered he feared for his family and his home. When Oberyn Martell died, Doran mourned for his brother, yet he saw the writing on the wall and had Estyr taken to Starfall where she stayed in secret, even after the rest of her family were betrayed by the Sand Snakes and they took rule. After the Sand Snakes died, an absence of power in Dorne was created, and a civil war broke out. One side, led by Olyvar Yronwood, seeking a chance to gain power over Dorne that he believed his house deserved. The other, led by the Daynes of Starfall, who held fierce loyalty to the Martells, and claimed to have their heir. Though as the battles waged closer and closer to the Daynes home, the risk to Estyr's life grew. So she fled with Lady Allyria Dayne to King's Landing. Now Starfall has fallen into the hands of the Yronwoods, and those who fight against them dwindle in number and conviction, believing the heir the Daynes had, was simply a story they used as to gain more men so they could take power in Sunspear. We do this all for Estyr and Dorne, because the truth is, an heir lives and if Prince Olyvar gains complete control of Dorne, thousands more will die. Yet, with Sansa’s tutelage, we believe Estyr to become a great ruler for Dorne, for her people and for the betterment of Westeros."

Silence fell, as Gendry began to process all of what Bran said, though, with the urgency of time, Tyrion finished for Bran. "We tell you, Gendry because your lands hold a great overwatch over the Narrow Sea. When we asked for you to keep an eye on ships from Essos, we also need you to watch those coming to and from Dorne. Though you must keep that a secret and only tell those that you completely trust, Olyvar has spies just as we do. We also must be aware that Olyvar could hire the growing sellsword company in Essos, to aid him in some way. It's not beyond normality for Westeros, and Daario Naharis may very well take the opportunity when he realises how much strife it would cause." 

Gendry studied them all, filling the awkwardness with nothing but uncertain glances. Finally, he rested his eyes on Sansa, who herself was looking intently at the young Stormlord. "There's got to be more in it for you, Sansa. What do you get out of helping Estyr and Dorne?" he asked her.

Sansa walked calmly back to the table, picked up her crown and rested it on her red-haired scalp. "Peace."

" _And?_ "

"Dorne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I understand that Cortnay Penrose is dead in the books, though he was not mentioned in the show, and I needed someone like him with his power and status to fill that role. I didn't want to simply create more people that didn't have a history. :)


	8. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding and feast amongst allies, enemies and all those in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big delay with this chapter, but hopefully it pays off. 
> 
> I hope you are all keeping well!

Though not as lavish as some she had attended in the past, Gendry Baratheon's wedding was no doubt a spectacle. It took place in the evening as the nightingale and owl alike began to sing to the coming night. However, it was unusually quiet inside Storm's End's candlelit and massive sept, which Sansa noticed was at least twice the size of Winterfell's Great Hall, given the number of people it held. Banners of gold and tawny interlaced each other high on the walls, amongst wooden placards of the seven-sided star. Candles flickered anxiously on the lower walls or on particularly placed candelabras about the room that lit the faces of those who attended. Though it was predominantly lords of the Stormlands inside the sept, there were a handful of lords from all across the Six Kingdoms, and even some from the North. Edmure, Roslin and their young Hoster Tully were present, all gleeful for the coming celebrations. The Lord Paramount of the Reach, Lord Bronn Blackwater, stood amongst other Small council members — Samwell Tarly, Anders Allyrion, Davos Seaworth, Belynda Rowan. They wore an array of various silks and velvets making them distinct from the rest of the room. Robin Arryn jittered on his feet, looking particularly bored with his surroundings beside Yon Royce, and Roland Waynwood of the Vale and behind them, Northmen. The aged and fat Wyman Manderly rested his weight against a wall beside his son Wylis. Larence Hornwood, Clay and Jonelle Cerwyn, Mira and Talia Forrester, even Captain Aberdale and his wife Wylla Manderley had a place of honour in the sept. They were the few Northmen that had arrived earlier in the day from White Harbor, bringing beer, wine, pork, lamb and sweetbreads and cakes specially made by a friend from Gendry's past. Though Gendry Baratheon barely knew the Northmen or those from the Vale for that matter, they had shared a unique experience and bond that was the Long Night. And whether or not they were from different kingdoms or believed in different gods, their experience on that one long night, that Sansa herself had the horror of enduring, would perforate longer than anything and gave the men shared respect for each other.

In the centre of the sept, creating a path for the bride to walk, were the Stormlord's and their families, and their families, families — Tarth, Penrose, Bolling, Errol, Whitehead, Rogers, Gower and Horpe. They stood on either side of the path littered with goldenrod and lady's lace flowers that Elyse Penrose began to walk down, an arm interwound with her father's walking beside her. Sansa saw them in all their splendour; Cortnay Penrose wore an ivory doublet neath a heavy woollen tabard dyed orange and fringed with white. His bald head was cleanly shaven and oiled, sparkling in the candlelight, and his red beard looked almost a light brown in the room. The bride — his daughter — glided beside him in a gown also of ivory, trimmed with dyed orange-brown fur, with faint stitchings of quills (the rather simple House Penrose sigil,) layered sparsely around the dress. A velvet mantle covered her head and face in her house colours of tawny brown.

"Imagine me walking down that aisle in gold and white. A dress of the sun and stars," Estyr whispered from beside Sansa.

"I stopped imagining things that would never happen a long time ago," Sansa replied sardonically. Her, Estyr and the young Jaren Glover stood at the end of the path beside the small raised platform where Gendry and Septon Gayle awaited the bride. Gayle wore basic white robes with a heavy amulet of a seven-sided star around his neck and Gendry was standing proud in a doublet of yellow-gold, fitted tightly to his body, accentuating his muscular figure and his now long dark hair was combed and tied back neatly. Opposite Sansa, on the other side were two kingsguards — Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick, and the only two in the room wearing armour. They were amidst Tyrion Lannister and beside him, the King of the Six Kingdoms, Brandon Stark. Though, to Sansa's disappointment, he no longer called himself a Stark and didn't even take the direwolf for his royal sigil. A raven marked his banners and the armour of his kingsguard, and the Three-Eyed Raven was the name he called himself.

"She doesn't deserve him," Estyr remarked spitefully with all her fourteen-year-old _wisdom_.

"You barely know Gendry. He made the sword Arya designed for you, and suddenly you're in love with him."

"I'm not in love with him!" Muttered Estyr angrily. "He's handsome and strong and brave is all, nothing like his _wife_."

Sansa snickered, "So, infatuated? Gods, you remind me of me."

Estyr rolled her eyes at Sansa, which only made her smile wider at the Dornish girl, and that made Estyr scowl grumpily. "Well," Estyr began in a tuff. "I know that I look better than _Lady Elyse_ and it's not even my wedding."

"Didn't pick you for a jealous one, Estyr." _Though perhaps you are right_ , Sansa thought. For as pretty as Lady Elyse looked, Sansa felt pride in Estyr's appearance. While Estyr was more comfortable in a leather doublet, rough pants and a sword by her side, she was not afraid to wear a dress. She even looked forward to the moment and the event in which she wore it, which was a complete contrast to Arya, who Estyr tried to emulate, especially during her Water Dance training. Estyr's dark hair tonight was tied in a single braid behind her back. Her Dornish, olive-toned skin glimmered underneath the flickering candle flames, and her white woollen dress, trimmed with grey fur and dark blue fastenings took in the light warmly. Sansa ordered for a small embroidery that was placed on the breast of Estyr's dress, of a rising sun beneath a shooting star. A sort of house sigil Estyr had taken a liking to when Arya had designed her sword. The rising sun pommel, and the shooting star on the hilt of Starfall, graced not only Estyr's sword now, but also a leather belt Sansa made her, her dress tonight, a small pin Estyr had fashioned in Winterfell and often markings in the snow in the castle courtyards when the girl was bored. Jaren was on Estyr’s other side, Sansa’s second ward, the son of Gawen Glover — taken by needs to secure Gawen’s loyalty after the siege of Deepwood Motte — he shifted uncomfortably in a tight leather jerkin with a cloak of scarlet wrapped around his shoulders, clasped with a pin of the first of House Glover. Though he was only seven, Jaren was nearly at height with Estyr. Sansa herself wore a dress near identical to Estyr's, though, in place of Estyr's sigil, Sansa had a crowned direwolf, and her bodice had pieces of polished steel plate sewn into the dress at certain parts — around her waist, on her shoulders and her wrists. Finishing it all was the direwolf crown on her head. She was a queen, and she liked to remind people of that, especially those in the south.

Lady Elyse stepped up onto the small podium, taking her place next to her soon to be husband, her face still shrouded by the tawny mantle. Gendry's hands had gripped in them, a velvet cloak of gold, frilled at the edges with fine lambswool. Black stags rearing on their hind legs embroidered evenly across it. As Elyse stood still as the looming night, her father removed the mantle from her head and off her shoulders. When Lord Cortnay stepped back, Elyse turned so that Gendry could place, with uncommon delicacy, the golden Baratheon cloak around her. The sight reminded Sansa of her own unfortunate wedding. Though Gendry and Elyse's was without the laughter and snickering that Sansa and Tyrion endured together. She glanced at the dwarf of Lannister, who was already staring at her with thoughtful eyes, and she knew that his mind was in the same place.

Now facing each other, the two betrothed stood with their hands together as Septon Gayle began his drawl. "My lords, my ladies. Our gracious King Bran the Broken, and the beautiful Sansa Stark, Queen in the North..." he said, infuriating Sansa as he enunciated each word with long drawn out syllables. "We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and always. The gods, in their great benevolence….” 

Septon Gayle kept up his monotonous vocal ceremony by naming and thanking each of The Seven and reciting passages from The Seven-Pointed Star. Just as he was on a particular section about the importance of the Mother and her "mercy," Sansa felt a nudge on her dress. She looked down at Estyr, who Sansa dwarfed, the Dornish girl was as tall as Arya, and both of them came well below Sansa's shoulder in height. “Jaren wants to know if your wedding with Lord Tyrion was as boring as this,” Estyr murmured.

“I didn’t say that!” Jaren hissed venomously, putting a hand up toward Estyr’s mouth. Sansa gave half a smile when Estyr whacked his hand away and told him to, “shut up!”

“Boring is not the word I would use,” muttered Sansa once they contained themselves. “There were far more people in a much larger sept and much more ceremony. Trust me, though, I did not want to be there."

“All weddings are boring,” groaned Jaren.

“You are stupid,” Estyr mocked. “This is the first one you’ve ever been to.”

“And it’s enough to know they are boring!”

“Keep it to yourself then! We are guests here, and we need to be respectful, not mope about!” Estyr turned to Sansa with an uncertain look on her. “Right?”

After giving a glance around the sept, Sansa smiled to herself. "We are amongst friends, for the most part. But if Septon Gayle keeps his boring prayers up, we may all become grey and wrinkly before he finishes!"

Estyr and Jaren both gave a happy giggle, which only made Sansa grin more, but Estyr’s face suddenly changed to one with deep thought. "Do you think you would get married again, Your Grace?"

That question gave Sansa pause. It had been a long time since she had ever thought of marriage. Even as queen and one of the last members of her ancient family, marriage and children had not crossed her mind. "I may," she finally answered though she was wholly uncertain if that were true.

The septon's prayers and passages eventually ended before they all turned grey. And according to the custom of The Seven, Gendry and Elyse faced Septon Gayle, side by side, their hands interlinked between each other as the Septon began wrapping a silk ribbon of white and gold around their hands, speaking vows as he did. "Let it be known that Elyse of House Penrose and Gendry of House Baratheon are one at heart, one flesh and one soul." He tied the ribbon in a knot at the top of their joined hands and finished the vow. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these souls, binding them, in perpetuity, as one. Look upon each other and say the words."

Gendy and Elyse did so, turning to face each other once again, Sansa could see the radiant smile on Elyse's face under the orange candlelight. She spoke the words in tandem with Gendry, the same words Sansa was forced to say as a child. "Father, Smith, Warrior. Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days. Now and Always."

 _Now and Always_... Sansa felt a chill run through her as Ramsay Bolton's icy and sickening voice haunted her. The scars he left pricked her skin. Those of her body that could be seen, and those of her soul, that was deeper, unseen, yet worse. She steeled herself against the memory and returned to the moment, where the sept filled with cheers of joy and clapping. The wedding was done, souls joined and, more importantly, favour and power sealed.

* * *

The wedding feast lit the entire castle with festivity, yet the feast hall in the Great Tower was its centre point, the hall was alive with people and food and drink and song. Sansa seated on the great table at the head of the hall, looking down upon the revelry. Westerosi lords and ladies seated at tables under the glow of warm candles and the luminous half-moon spearing light through the windows and open balconies that that offered a view out to the east or west. Tables of oak and ebony and northern ironwood were evenly placed across the hall, upon which were pit-roasted boars that lay in great platters across the tables alongside bacon, racks of salted venison, plates of pigeon pie and black sausages. Fish from the Narrow Sea, eels, cod, herring, were amongst them for those who enjoyed the taste of the sea. Dessert was grapes, apples, berry tarts, lemon cakes and blood oranges. They swallowed it all down with honeyed wine, ale, stout beer brought from White Harbor, Dornish reds and Arbor golds from King’s Landing and Storm’s End’s own stores. The hall smelt of an intoxicating feast, the smoky scent of the boars filled Sansa’s senses, as servants cut straight from the dead, cooked animal and brought plates of the meat to the great table. The smell of seawater followed when the fish came, and the warm, homely and ever welcoming smell of the lemon pie made Sansa uncommonly giddy, though it settled as her fork carried a piece of the warm, sweet pie to her mouth and she shuddered under the weight of its sweetness. 

Sansa nibbled at each serving, delicate with her utensils and making the meal easier as she sipped her Arbor wine. While to her right, Lord Gendry ate as though it was his last day. Meal after meal the man did not seem wain in his hunger and he drank even more. Copious amounts of wines and ales came and went faster than Sansa could count. Sansa wondered if Arya had seen this side of him, and she smiled to herself, realising there was likely much Arya had seen of Lord Gendry Baratheon. Gendry and his new wife, (who evidently was not Arya,) sat at the centre of the great table, and Gendry shouted across the room in response to lords, laughed heartily at jest and slammed the table to the tune of the singers. Lady Elyse Baratheon, on the other hand, sat with a pleasant smile as she talked to King Bran beside her. The few chances Sansa was able to glance at the king, she noticed he did not eat his servings; he merely smiled as Elyse rattled at his ears. Sansa felt his discomfort, if he still felt such a thing, as all the while to her left, Samwell Tarly talked and grated on in her ear. She liked Samwell, well enough, though the man could talk. He was a walking library which no doubt was useful, she understood, but hardly at this place and hour. He spoke of subjects ranging from the foods they ate to the state of the seasons. “Three months of winter! Three of Summer?” he said, “it’s brilliant but confusing.” He spoke of the Archmaester and the Citadel and his life in King’s Landing with Gilly and their children. Sansa listened as politely as she could, smiling and nodding and asking a question here and giving a laugh there, though her ears pricked when he spoke of Jon.

“I sent a raven to Castle Black asking after him,” Samwell said after finishing a bite of his cod. “But I haven’t received a reply yet.”

“The change in the seasons has thrown us all off, the animal too no doubt, ravens even more so,” Sansa suggested.

"Yes, but it's been some time that we've had these changes in the lengths of seasons, you'd think they would have acclimated by now, as we have."

"That is a question for the scholars, like yourself grandmaester."

Samwell gave a broad food-stuffed grin, joined by wide-eyed pride. He swallowed his food and said with a chuckle, “That is true enough. I heard you went to the Wall when Jon returned. How is he?”

Sam and Jon were best friends, and although she left the Wall in an unpleasant way with Jon, she was unsure if telling Sam the truth was the right thing. That truth being that she and Jon were not on the best of terms and that Jon was unhappy to be back in Westeros. He did not tell her this, she did not need to hear it, she saw it. She knew her brother. “Jon is healthy, and in high spirits,” she told Sam with a smile. “He had many adventures beyond the wall. I’m sure he will write to you about them.”

“I’m just glad to hear that he’s well, Jon has been through enough,” Sam said with a relieving smile, and he turned back to his plate of fish, but as he did his eyes stopped at the entrance to the hall, and they narrowed suspiciously. “Isn’t that your man, Your Grace? And what's he doing with a commoner?” Sam pointed a finger and Sansa followed it to see, sure enough, Captain Aberdale, standing beside a portly, curly-haired man wearing a russet outfit caked in flour and blemished with smudges of fruits and cream. In the man’s hands was elaborate, blush pink cake. Frosted buttercream was delicately drawn upon the cake to make an image of a stag with quills falling around it and flowers of fondant overlayed the edges of the cake which looked airy and sweeter than any lemon pie.

“Beg pardon, Sam,” Sansa said, and she turned to Gendry. When she placed a soft hand on his arm, Gendry settled from his ruckus merriment and faced her. “M’lady… I mean, Your Grace,” he said, his words slurred by drink.

“My lord, I have a gift for you,” she gesticulated towards the hall's entrance and motioned for Captain Aberdale and the portly man to step forward. 

Gendry’s drunk eyes faced them as they walked between tables, and he studied them, entirely uncertain in what he was seeing. “You brought me two big men and a fairy cake?” Gendry asked, facing her again. “I am married now, Queen Sansa. Or is this how bedding ceremonies go in the North? Should I have expected this if Arya and I married?”

Sansa laughed. “No, Lord Gendry, I brought you an old friend.”

He leaned on his chair across the great table as far as he could, eying Captain Aberdale and the cake-wielding man as they stopped just before it. Gendry suddenly rose in a huff and slammed the table with a palmed hand. “Quiet! I want Quiet! Queen Sansa has brought me a gift!” He bellowed. The singers stopped with urgency, and as soon as they did, the rest of the hall swiftly came to a standstill, staring at their lord and the great table in silent anticipation. 

Gendry lifted a wavering finger and pointed it at the curly-haired, portly man. “I am very drunk, but I remember your face,” he said slowly.

“Ello Gendry! It’s me, Hotpie. Been a while, eh?” Said Hotpie with half a smile, nervously holding the large cake on its platter.

“Hotpie?” Gendry repeated, and he straightened himself while he eyed Hotpie. Then his senses came to him. “Hotpie!” he screamed, and suddenly Gendry jumped across the great table, uncaringly knocking candles, cups and plates of food across the floor. He landed steadily and bounded for Hotpie.

Sansa held back a laugh watching Hotpie’s face fill with mounting fear as the muscular Gendry came upon him, uncertain on what to do with the cake he held, he just froze, and Gendry knocked the cake from his grasps, completely uncaring to its presence. The hall blew up in wild laughter as the beautiful cake smashed onto the floor splashing cream everywhere, including over Gendry and Hotpie. The Lord of Storm’s End ignored it however and embraced Hotpie in a great hug, and the claps and cheers echoed around them. 

“This stupid bastard tried to threaten Arya Stark when he met her!” Gendry bellowed to the hall, an arm around Hotpie, and the hall laughed at the notion of someone trying to threaten the Hero of Winterfell. “Aye, but he was with Arya and me from the beginning. He’s a good man and a bloody good baker! Never burnt his fingers once, you see!” Gendry lifted a hand of Hotpie’s which were white with flour and stained with fondant, but plainly unburnt.

Sansa grinned pleasantly at the sight, but as she gazed across the hall and the encouraging lords and ladies of Westeros, she looked to her right, down the great table. Lady Elyse clapped and laughed, King Bran smiled and watched silent, but Tyrion, sitting on Bran’s right, was looking beyond him. He was staring at Sansa with a knowing look in his dwarf eyes. She caught his gaze and stared back. If there was any person in this hall that knew Sansa, it was Tyrion, but it would not dissuade her. She broke eye contact and rose from her chair. The night was young still, and there were many to talk to. Though as she walked from the great table, with the goblet of wine in her hand, she could feel Tyrion Lannister’s eyes follow her.

At the beginning of the feast, the lords and ladies were all neatly seated together, in reserved spots designated for those from each of the kingdoms. However, as Sansa ambled between tables, filled with raucous activity, flowing cups, bellowing lords and giggling servant girls. She noticed the tables were all mixed now, men of the Reach sat on top of tables sharing stories with Stormlanders. Northmen mixed amongst the Vale and Riverlanders drinking and cheering. She even spotted Wyman Manderly laughing ridiculously at a jest by Bronze Yon Royce. It seemed only the few Dornishmen that attended the wedding did not move from their seating in the eastern corner of the hall. They sat amongst themselves, glancing around the hall and whispering to each other.

Sansa found herself walking between tables of men of houses from the Reach and Stormlands, their sigils decorating their doublets, tunics, or small bronze pins or clasps on their chest and as she walked amongst them, stopping occasionally to talk to a lord or lady or introduce herself to those she had not met, she spotted Ser Brienne and Lord Selwyn of Tarth who were sitting together talking intently. Aemon Estermont caught Sansa’s eye and introduced his son to her. They made nothing but small talk before Sansa continued, coming to a stop where the end of the long Stormlanders table met the great table in an ‘L’ like shape. There gazing up at her was the dour-faced Lord Cortnay Penrose, and his daughter Elyse Baratheon. Who it seemed had moved from the great table to join her father.

“Queen Sansa!” Elyse said, shooting up from her chair with a slight tipsy look in her expression. “Doing the rounds?”

“Taking the advantage to meet some fine Westerosi I’ve only heard of, Lady Baratheon,” Sansa answered.

Elyse’s cheeks went bright pink. “Oh, It is ever so strange to hear people call me that. I don't know if I will ever get used to it.”

“You will, my dear, it is an old and great name. Much like the Starks,” said Lord Cortnay in monotone and stern voice.

Sansa flashed him a smile. “Thank you, my lord.” She looked down at his platter of fish and grapes and a slice of pigeon pie. No goblet or cup was with it, nor in his hands. “Missing a drink, Lord Cortnay?” Sansa asked.

“I don’t partake,” Cortnay answered flatly.

 _No, of course you don't._ She mused. “Well, I do hope you enjoy the feast." Sansa attempted to steal away, but the impatient voice of Lady Elyse halted her.

"Are _you_ enjoying the feast, Your Grace?" She asked with eagerness. "I'm sure it is not as lavish as the ones you might have attended in the Capital. Far less eventful I'd wager too."

Sansa offered her a kind smile. "It is missing the mummer dwarfs and the pigeons flying out of the great pie, but these are all a farce that I care nothing for."

"What about the poisoning?" Cortnay asked though it may have been in jest, his serious tone made it seem otherwise.

"Father!” Elyse reprimanded him with a gentle slap on his shoulder. “Forgive his bluntness, Your Grace, though… well,” Lady Elyse darted her eyes about the room and made her voice a whisper. “They do say that _you_ killed King Joffrey at his wedding… is it true?”

Sansa contemplated both of them, and she recalled Arya asking her the same question when they reunited in the Crypts of Winterfell. It was only right she told Arya the truth, but it need not be the case here. Truth is rarely a good weapon. “Lady Elyse,” Sansa said slyly. “It is unbecoming for a lady to divulge such things, let alone a queen.”

Elyse dropped her shoulders, though smiled apologetically, “Of course, I am sorry, Queen Sansa.”

Suddenly a hand grabbed Sansa’s arm, and a man’s slender voice spoke beside her. “It is also _smart_ not to speak the truth of such things, keeps everyone on their toes.” 

She faced the man who spoke, and he leered at her with a thin, slimy smile accentuated by wisps of a growing moustache. It was Anders Allyrion, wearing bright gold and red-trimmed robes, with his combed slick hair atop his thin face, still flashing his greasy smile.

“Would you agree, Your Grace?” he continued. “Let everyone believe the story… Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, and _Kingslayer_ …”

Sansa looked down at his hand, still holding her arm, then flicked her eyes back to his, and she flared with irritation. “Of the last two men who touched me without my desire,” Sansa began with a stern tone. “One was fed alive to his hounds, screaming, and the other died on his knees, begging. Which one are you, Lord Allyrion?”

Anders Allyrion let go immediately and recoiled, though he still smiled unpleasantly at her. “And deadly with words,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Many have spoken of your beauty, just as they have spoken about your quick tongue. I am pleased to see there is truth in both.”

“Words don’t win wars,” Lord Cortnay added.

“Are we at war?” Sansa asked him quickly, shooting him a frown.

Cortnay seemed to study Sansa a moment, then flashed a thin grin. “Words more often than not start wars, is all I mean, Your Grace. We’ve seen it too often these past years. The young are quick to anger and too eager to destroy lives and homes just for a victory. There is no future in that.”

“Throughout history, I am certain that old men like yourself have said the same thing, Lord Cortnay. And yet the old die and the world keeps spinning.” Sansa told him. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to win a war, do not attempt to educate me on the young.”

“Hear hear!” came the voice of Mira Forrester, sauntering into the small group, a pewter cup in her hand half full of ale. She gave them an effortless smile. “I must ask forgiveness, but my queen, there is an urgent issue with the Northern Lords that needs your attention.”

"Excuse me, my lords, my lady," Sansa filled with relief as she made a brusque departure from the group and walked beside Mira. “You look far too happy for there to be a problem, Mira.”

“Am I that bad a liar?” Mira replied, then waved it away with a hand and chuckled. “No, there is no issue. You just looked like you'd be comfortable somewhere else.”

“Then I thank you, my lady. I would much prefer my fellow Northmen to some of these snakes.”

“I am sure we’re not much better, but it is the least I can do. I should tell you, though. Little Estyr has been acting strange since the beginning of the feast. She hasn’t moved from the table, won’t drink and won’t dance, not even with Talia.”

“Is she unwell?” Sansa asked, that familiar feeling of concern coming back.

“I asked, she says she is fine. I think it might have something to do with the Dornishmen. I caught her glancing at their table a few times, and they’re not helping her either. Lord Anders’s father, Ryon, keeps looking over at Estyr, the poor girl. They probably wonder why a Dornish girl is amongst Northmen. She sticks out like a viper among wolves. Though if Lord Ryon doesn’t stop his creepy staring, I have a mind to go over to his table and show him my sword.”

Though the truth was that Ryon Allyrion stared at Estyr because his mind was racing with suspicion, just as Sansa hoped. “Don’t,” Sansa said, placing a hand on Mira’s shoulder as they came to a stop just before the table of Northmen. “I will take care of this.”

“As you say, my queen.”

They had arrived at the western side of the hall, where several tables of ebony, joined together to create a single one, stretching from the great table to the front of the hall. Sansa and Mira came to a section nearest the great table, seeing Captain Aberdale seated with his wife Wyla Manderly on his lap. She was laughing at Lord Cley Cerwyn and his sister, Lady Jonelle Cerwyn bickering at each other. The siblings seemed to ignore Sansa as she passed by, and she held back a grin as she heard Jonelle call Cley a “bloody idiot!” As Sansa came to the end of the table, where Estyr sat unusually timid in her chair, playing with pieces of boar meat on her platter, Mira’s younger sister Talia Forrester, a short, fair-haired girl of age with Estyr, skipped toward Sansa and gave her a quick curtsy.

“Hello Talia,” Sansa said pleasantly. “Have you spoken to Estyr?”

“I’ve tried,” Talia said, her timid eyes on the floor. “I want her to come dance with me. But she won’t get up. She won’t say what’s wrong, either. I hope she’s okay.”

Sansa put a hand under Talia’s chin and lifted her face, so their eyes met. “She’s grumpy because she can’t have Lord Gendry all to herself.” Talia giggled at the comment and Sansa gave her a wink. “Go with your sister, I will speak with Estyr.”

As Talia skipped away toward Mira, Sansa placed her goblet on the table and walked around the end, coming to Estyr’s right, and knelt beside her, the breeze from the nearby balcony blew strands of her dark hair. Sansa put a hand on Estyr’s knee, and Estyr gave her half a smile.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asked bluntly

Estyr’s smile faded, and her eyes danced about the hall, before finally settling on the Dornish lords sitting in the far north-eastern corner of the hall. Sansa glanced at them herself, and through the mass of passing servants and wondering lords, she could see the slender eyes of Ryon Allyrion, gawking back at Sansa and Estyr. “Mother and I fled Dorne because of the civil war that started,” said Estyr. “And those men are from the houses that started it.”

Sansa knew that the mother Estyr was talking about, was, in fact, Allyria Dayne of Starfall, not Estyr's true mother, but a woman who was like a mother. She had fled Starfall and Dorne, taking Estyr Martell, the Princess of Dorne and heir to Sunspear with her to safety. But Estyr did not know that Sansa knew the truth. She pitied the girl, understanding well the pain she must have suffered in her losses. “Do they scare you?” Sansa asked.

Estyr spun her head to Sansa and glowered at her. “Of course not. I just don’t like being here with them. Why aren’t any of the other Dornish houses here? Like the Daynes?”

“I don’t know, little viper.” _I doubt there are any Daynes left,_ Sansa kept those thoughts to herself. It was not the time for Estyr to hear the truth of Starfall falling into the hands of the Yronwoods, with Starfall and the Daynes being so close to Estyr’s heart. “You’re not the girl who would let a few lingering eyes intimidate her.”

“Maybe you don’t know me,” Estyr stated sullenly.

“I know you are a fighter who helped me seize Deepwood Motte. I know that you love a feast and the joy of dancing, and I know that you cherish your friendship with Talia and wouldn’t want her to worry about you.”

Estyr dropped her eyes, gazing sadly at the floor between them. But Sansa looked beyond her when she spotted a man in an elegant purple gown, wearing a cap with colourful bird feathers sticking from its top. He looked at Sansa as he plucked a harp and flashed her a wink before stepping out onto the nearby balcony. Sansa, as gently as she could, lifted Estyr’s face with a hand and looked deep into the girl's dark eyes. “I know a great deal of what it is like to be around your enemies, but you must stay resolute. Never show them that they have power over you, never give them an inch, conduct yourself as a lady. Not all battles are won with steel and a lady’s armour is courtesy, and your sword is your wits. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Estyr replied.

“You are a woman grown now, and I will not have you sulking in the corner. Come, let’s get some air, then I want to see you dancing.”

A veil of stars met them when they stepped outside onto the balcony, leaving the roaring feast behind them. Twinkling diamonds and sapphires spread across the indigo sky, above the lands of Westeros. Estyr placed her hands on the smooth stone balustrade and took a deep, closed-eyed breath as Sansa gazed across the fields shrouded in darkness that were speckled with orange glows of fire in the distance. From the shadows of the corner of the balcony came a rustle, Estyr heard it immediately and stepped close to Sansa, grasping for a sword at her waist that was not there. However, the noise was no threat, for Rymund the Rhymer stepped out smiling wide as the feathers in his cap fluttered in the night’s breeze.

“Beautiful night for it,” he said in his sing-song voice.

“Not anymore,” Estyr snapped. “Why do you hide in the shadows? You should be playing with the other singers, poet.”

“You mean Hamish the Hack? And the other so-called artists? Their voices grate like a saw; they have no perfect pitch. Please, I will not lower myself.”

“Unless gold is involved, right?” Sansa said.

Rymund offered her a discerning look then his lips curled into a thin smile. “Too right, Your Grace. The Capital has a wealth of information for the right price.”

“Let’s hear it.”

He stepped closer, coming in beside Estyr. “Before I reveal anything, I must ask, is the fat baker boy you brought in a spy of yours? Not very spry for a spy.”

“As ever, your rhymes are eye-opening. Did you really think I would tell you?”

“Why ever not? I will find out. Just like I found out about your two boy spies at the Inn at the Crossroads. Young bakers working under the innkeeper.”

“Yes, I know you know of them Rymund. Do you know how I know? Because I have two spies at the Inn at the Crossroads, who informed me. Don’t try to play with me, just sing your songs.”

He chortled into the air grasping at his belly. “I do enjoy this! Very well, gracious queen, what would you like to hear?”

“How does King’s Landing fair?”

Rymund raised a brow, “could you not simply ask yourself? You have many friends in the Small Council.”

“I would like the words of the people.”

“Very well,” he placed a hand on the balustrade and tapped his fingers in thought. “I did spend many a night in various inns and alehouses last I was in the city, and one or two whorehouses I am not afraid to admit. The Capital is, as The Capital was, streets are a bustle, whores fuck, men drink and the Red Keep watches over them all. Though, Daenerys Targaryen’s attack hangs over the city like a thick fog, nor do I believe it will ever depart. But if you expected King’s Landing to recede and collapse, Queen Sansa, it hasn’t.”

“I did not. What do they think of their king?”

“Oh, he is a king, an absent one. It is the Hand of the King that is seen more often, though I hear that King Bran has attended more to his people in recent months, but that is just talk, he is no Jaehaerys the First.”

Sansa scowled at Rymund. “Nor is my brother Aerys Targaryen, or Daenerys for that matter. Your _information_ offers little in terms of information.”

“Though it is information, all the same, Your Grace. I did not say it was juicy, or that you would like it.”

Sansa placed her hands behind her back, and strolled around Estyr and Rymund coming to a stop next to him, she leaned in close to his ear and said in a hushed voice. “I had better hear something I like, poet, or this beautiful night will be the last thing you see.”

Estyr gripped his hand, holding it tight against the balustrade. “I wonder if you fell from this tower, would your death screams have a perfect pitch?”

“Very well, very well!” Rymund said, jerking his hand from Estyr and putting both up in a motion of surrender. “I have heard talk that there are many lords in the Reach that are unhappy with their new Lord Paramount, Bronn Blackwater. And I have also heard that the Master of Whispers has some of the Kingsguard in his payroll. And I heard talk from Dorne too.”

“What of Dorne?” Estyr demanded wide-eyed.

“Why would it concern you, little lady?” Rymund asked, and as quick as a viper Estyr grabbed his index finger once more, and bent it back. Rymund roared with agony, his scream of pain was not pitch-perfect, Sansa noticed. 

“Answer me!” Estyr demanded with a voice thick of firey gravel.

Rymund cleared his throat and groaned from the pain. “After the siege of Starfall, it was said that Prince Olyvar rounded up the survivors and slaughtered them, he was apparently asking for the whereabouts of some child, though none answered him.”

“What siege?” Estyr pulled his finger back further, eliciting a squeal from Rymund. “What happened to Starfall!”

“It fell into the hands of Prince Olyvar, and he declared the strife in Dorne settled," Rymund said between pants of pain. "That is all I know!"

Rymund cursed under his breath as relief came when Estyr removed her grasps from his finger. She turned ungracefully and peered out to the dark fields. It was not how Sansa wanted this information revealed. She could see the despair filling Estyr, and all the thoughts that may come, those of the unknown and unanswered to flood her mind. _Perhaps I should tell her what I know, it might make it easier for her if I shared in her pain and that she had someone she could talk to about it all. The gods, in all their cruelty, knew that I needed someone when I was like her._

“Leave us, Rymund,” Sansa said. “Thank you for what you have told us.”

“My gold?”

“Tomorrow. Leave us now or there will be none at all,” she said sternly. As Rymund hurried from the balcony, getting lost in the crowd of the feast, Sansa turned to face Estyr. The Dornish girl wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, drying the tears that had come. "You almost broke his finger, everything okay?

“I was raised in the shadow of Starfall… I would often look up to it at night from our village. It was a pretty castle… and, I was saddened to hear of its siege, that’s all. I'm sorry, Your Grace, I should not cry over stone and mortar.”

“It is the hardest of times when we have to be our strongest.” _And I know it is not the castle you mourn._ Sansa placed her hand on Estyr’s shoulder and rubbed it gently. "Take a moment and enjoy the night.”

A gust of air rippled their white woollen dresses and their braided hair as they stood in silence together, gazing upon the world below. The sound of feasts behind them could almost be forgotten in the sereneness of the night. A long breath came from Sansa’s side, and Estyr turned to face her. “Do you trust Rymund?” she said, breaking their silence.

“I far from trust him. He is obviously spying for one of the other kingdoms,” Sansa answered with a smile. “But his word is always true.”

“But why do you spy on the Six Kingdoms? They are our allies.”

“They are, and I hope we stay allies for many years. But knowledge is power and we must always be prepared. Even the strongest of allies keep secrets and Bran won’t be king forever.”

The Dornish girl's dark eyes scanned across Sansa’s face, studying her expression and her words. Finally, she said, “If I were a lady of a great kingdom, would you spy on me?”

Sansa smirked, “what do you think?”

Estyr could not give her answer, because Talia Forrester stepped out onto the balcony and ran up beside Estyr full of cheer. “There you are! Lord Tyrion and I have been looking for you!” Tyrion Lannister too came forth, walking as he rubbed his arms on his sable gambeson against the cold of the night. “Are you feeling better? Will you come to dance?” Talia asked urgently.

Estyr drew her eyes up to Sansa, seeking permission or acceptance. All Sansa did was smile, and Estyr got her answer. The sullenness that was on Estyr's face a moment ago disappeared in an instant. She grabbed Talia’s hand “Yes! Let’s go show these southerners how to dance!” And in a rush, the two girls, one fair one dark, ran back into the feast hall, their dresses flailing behind them.

“To be young,” said Tyrion, as he came to a stop beside Sansa, and they watched the girls disappear into the bustle. “If only I had their energy to dance through the night and feast on wine and cake… speaking of cake! That was such a grand wedding cake Hotpie brought in! You are generous with your gifts, Queen Sansa, though it is such a shame Lord Gendry paid it no mind.”

 _I know this game, Tyrion._ She looked down at him with a thin smile. “Yes that was unfortunate, but at least Lord Gendry reunited with an old friend.”

“Indeed, tell me, does Hotpie intend to stay in Storm’s End?”

“Hotpie does as he wants, he is a free man and has made no oath to me.”

“Truly? That does bring back a memory of Winterfell, the night of the feast where Daenerys rose Gendry to Lord of Storm’s End. The hall cheered in celebration for him, but not you. You knew exactly what she was doing.”

“Such a strange place for your mind to go, Lord Hand,” Sansa said sarcastically.

“Not so strange, when you have perspective.”

“We’ve had more foreplay these past minutes then we did on our wedding night,” Sansa said bluntly. “I am done with this game, or have you come here just to play?”

“Well, _I_ was having fun… No Sansa, I come here to talk to a friend. I know you have some plans with Hotpie in the Stormlands, and I know you will not tell me. Though I trust your judgment and that it is no threat to the Six Kingdoms.”

“I will never threaten my brother’s kingdoms.”

“Good to hear,” Tyrion’s face went soft and a gentle smile came across his lips. “How are you, Sansa.”

She returned it warmly. “I’m well, in a manner of speaking.”

“Trouble with Estyr?”

“Somewhat. I believe that change is coming in her life, and she will have to step up to it.”

“That change may come sooner than you think,” said Tyrion. “Now that Dornishmen have seen her.”

“Let them. All they will do is look and whisper. They will not harm her tonight.”

“No not tonight, and probably not for the next several days, months or years even. But the threat against her will rise—”

“And she will meet it,” Sansa said resolutely in her tone, but her conscience was not so sure.

“And you will be beside her? What was it you said yesterday, you want peace and _Dorne_?”

“An alliance with Dorne is only a benefit for everyone.”

“Provided it does not come between the King of the Six Kingdoms. Estyr has a great deal of loyalty to you. If she does in fact become Princess of Dorne, I hope that she makes her oath to Bran and not you.”

“Why wouldn’t she Tyrion? Do you think I would undermine my brother? Make him a ruler of five kingdoms and myself Queen of Dorne and the North?"

"You have ambition, and the skills to see it through."

"My interest is only in the safety of the North, a strong relation with Dorne _and_ the Six Kingdoms furthers that goal.”

“What about Estyr’s interest? Bran told me that before Arya left for the Sunset Sea, you and she had a conversation. Where you told her that should Estyr come between the safety of the North, you would give Estyr up. Is that still true?”

Sansa turned in a fury, looking out to lands of Westeros and gripping the balustrade tightly. “Brandon ought to learn the value of privacy.”

Tyrion chuckled as he joined her by the balustrade. “Sometimes, I don’t think he can help it. But you did not answer the question.”

“Nor should I.” She gave a deep sigh, reserving herself. But even as she stared out into the night, she could feel Tyrion’s eyes on her.

“You care for the girl,” he ventured. “I can see it.”

“Very astute,” Sansa said. She sighed again, then looked to Tyrion. “Do you think it is wrong that I hide my knowledge from her?”

“That you know who she truly is? Well, I can’t say. How did you feel about Jon keeping his secret from you?”

“That is quite different, Tyrion.”

“In some ways, yes, but as Jon had to choose, Estyr will too. She will have to make a choice between Estyr of Winterfell or Estyr Martell of Sunspear. And your relationship with her will have a great impact on that choice.”

“If I tell her, she may come to resent me. She believes Arya and I took her in out of the kindness of our heart, but she will realise it was because of her birth and name… She is still young, brash and full of anger so I am uncertain of how she will react, nor do I know if she is ready…” Sansa felt a small hand of Tyrion’s touch hers on the balustrade, his thumb rubbing the back of her palm gently.

“You defeated your enemies, and became Queen with your intellect alone,” he said with a broad smile. “I am sure you will overcome this hurdle.”

“Thank you for your confidence,” she returned his smile. “You are a good friend.”

“I’ve learnt not to underestimate you like so many others have,” he admitted and judged her momentarily. “There are wars coming, Sansa. Friends are important as new enemies arise. It is a shame they are not women, from my experience, they are at least more willing to talk.”

Sansa gazed down at him with a critical look. “Not from mine. The greatest conqueror we've seen in three hundred years was a woman. Cersei was a warmonger, the Sand Snakes as well. So many other women too. You may want to rethink your logic, Tyrion.”

“Well, I try to see the positive side,” He laughed heartily. “Where do you fit in that list?”

Sansa broke from his mismatched eyes and took hers northward into the veil that shrouded the land. “I don’t plan on knitting by the fire while men fight for me.” 

As the night went on, the feast roared until its late hours. Sansa kept herself sober, though she stayed awake for much of the night, thoughts of the coming days and months rattling her mind. She found her deliberation bring to her memories of her father, and the tourney they had attended together at King's Landing. She remembered holding his hands, she remembered his calming words and the sweet doll he had brought for her. She wondered if he was this restless as Hand of the King, or Lord of Winterfell. Then she suddenly realised that the tourney for the Baratheon wedding that was to come on the morrow would only bring more restlessness. Just as battles in the lists would happen, battles of the mind would take place, and perhaps more. Westeros was a boiling pot and the history of tournaments showed it was were all came to head. Sansa Stark steeled herself against the fear. _I am a daughter of Winterfell_. _I am of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. I am Queen in the North._


	9. Estyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great tourney of Storm's End begins, yet a rash decision leads to life-changing consequences for Estyr.

Estyr found little sleep in the night. Her mind was a mess racing with thoughts of Starfall and its people. This discontent remained in the early morning as she peered into the blooming horizon. She seated herself on the wide windowsill in one of the guest chambers of Storm's End's Great Tower, her sword Starfall in hand, swinging it lazily by her side. At the same time, she gazed at the orange rising sun, and the waters of the Narrow Sea, the breeze from the open window gently blew Estyr’s white sleeping gown she still wore. 

She had tried to fall asleep on a bed shared with Talia Forrester, both of them stumbled into the chambers late in the night after the wedding feast. However, Talia had her weight on Estyr as they fumbled through the halls and eventually to the bed, for it seemed Mira Forrester allowed her little sister a few too many cups of wine. Talia had fallen asleep before Estyr had even laid on the furs, and when she eventually did, she tried to rest her eyes next to Talia, she wanted rest and to be at full attention for the coming tourney. Still, the revelation she received at the feast — that Starfall had come under siege and occupied by Olyvar Yronwood — had all made her fight with her anxious mind a battle she could not win. Once she had learned of Starfall’s fate at the feast the night before (from Rymund the Rhymer of all people,) the feast became less of fun and celebration to her, but an act. She acted the part of a girl enjoying herself, as Queen Sansa would have wanted. She kept her gaze off the Dornishmen that leered at her, who were no doubt putting pieces together that perhaps she might be the child their prince was looking for. She danced to the tune of the feast with Talia and other lords and ladies whose names she could not remember. And she clapped along with everyone as guest carried Gendry and Elyse Baratheon off so they could seal their marriage in the bedding ceremony.

Estyr had played her part, but all the while the back of her mind fluttered with thoughts of Starfall, and the attempts at sleep only brought more, yet they still had not abated by the morning. She grasped tightly onto her sword in her hand and brought her eyes upon it — a gift from Arya Stark, the sword she had named after Starfall, the castle she spent almost four years in. A second home. Each time Estyr looked at her sword with the shooting star engraved on its hilt, it reminded her of that great castle of the Daynes and the life she had there — its winding white halls, its beds of flowers under the Dornish sun, and the times she spent swimming in the Torrentine River under the shadow of the castle. But the blade also reminded her of Arya and her words: _I will always be by your side._

Was she now? What would Arya do if she were in Estyr's place? Estyr had enemies here, whether they knew it or not. She recognised the banners of House Allyrion, the same banners that had chased her and others across the Dornish sands, And it was the eyes of Lord Ryon Allyrion on her all night during the feast. She wanted to kill him, and the other Dornish lords, it would be all they deserved for what happened to Starfall! And it would silence them too; they would not be able to speak of a strange Dornish girl mixing with Northmen. But would Arya do that? Would Queen Sansa accept it? The Dornish Lords had come here in peace. If Estyr killed one, it could create strife between Sansa and the other kingdoms, which she did not want. But the Dornish presence at Storm’s End could mean King Bran supported them, or at least did not recognise the civil war. No, she was overthinking it. King Bran had power, and maybe he had a plan… 

_I could kill Lord Ryon and that slimy Lord Anders, two Allyrions dead. I know I could do it._ But King Bran would know, she would not get away with it, and she would be punished. Suddenly words of Arya came to her once more, _promise me, Estyr_. Words once said in a fallen council chamber. In a time when Estyr wanted to kill Unsullied for their spear that pierced Allyria’s heart, (and yet she still did.) Lady Arya had told her not to seek that revenge, not to succumb to it, she had made Estyr swear a promise not to, fearing it would lead her down a stray path that Arya herself had travelled. And perhaps Arya would also say the same were she here now, who knew? Not Estyr. 

_Maybe I ought to tell Queen Sansa the truth, tell her who I really am. We could deal with the Yronwoods and the Allyrions and the rest of them together! If Queen Sansa would still have me…_ That would mean Estyr breaking another promise that she had made, this one to her father. _Promise me, child, you mustn’t tell anyone. You are the future of our family. You must live._ Through breaking that promise could send Estyr on a path to take back her home — Sunspear. A place she could hardly remember, but never forget. Father wanted that for her, to take back the Martell home and kingdom, so, doubtless, he would have forgiven the misdeed of a broken promise, even if taking back Dorne were aided by the Queen in the North. 

There were so many promises, she was bound to break one sooner or later. However, she feared telling Queen Sansa the truth would end badly. Were Sansa to realise that she was hiding a Dornish princess, she may just give Estyr up rather than risking confrontation with Dorne. Estyr hoped they were closer than that, close enough at least that the queen would defend her. Though, if Bran’s powers were true, perhaps he knew who Estyr truly was and had already told Sansa, and Sansa had known all along but chose not to admit it. Was that worse? Being lied to and perhaps being used for some unknown reason? Or keeping the secret under her terms? She was unsure. She was increasingly unsure of many things of late.

Estyr sighed deeply, dropping her sword arm back down to her side and looked over to Talia laying pleasantly under the furs, still asleep, looking peaceful as the rising sun speared orange wisps of morning light through the window beside Estyr and gleamed upon Talia’s pretty face and fair-hair. Although she was an airy girl, Talia Forrester was a good friend. They had created a quick rapport with each other when they met at Queen Sansa’s coronation, having a joint love of dance, food and making fun of others. Estyr hoped Talia would not meet the same fate of premature death as so many people in Estyr's life had, like her family — Oberyn, Trystane, her father. And the Daynes: Allyria, the mother Estyr never had — murdered by Unsullied. And now with the loss of Starfall, perhaps Edric too — slaughtered by his own countrymen. She felt sadness shroud her mind as she tried to remember Edric or _Sweet Ned_ as Allyria called him. He _was_ a sweet man, he would always smile at Estyr and always knew how to brighten her day. She remembered Edric Dayne’s broad smile fondly, the dimpled cheeks on his fresh face and his blonde hair the colour of pale sand that was always in his deep blue eyes so blue they were almost purple. 

_Now I will never see them again. Not father, nor Allyria or Edric… poor Sweet Ned._ Estyr felt the tears in her eyes when she reminisced on the day Ned took her through his home of Starfall, how he held her hand as they ascended the Palestone Tower and the joy she had when he showed her the Dayne’s ancestral sword, Dawn. “My uncle Arthur Dayne once wielded this,” Ned had told her as they stared at the sword. It lay rested on a stone bed at the top of the tower. It’s blade as pale as milk, a crossguard of silvered steel, a hilt as dark as ebony and a golden engraving of a star on the pommel. “They called him The Sword of the Morning. But he’s gone now, and this sword is mine… when the time is right.”

She wondered if that time had come, Edric would have fought to defend Starfall, she knew it, and he would have wielded Dawn, not wanting it to fall in the hands of the enemies unless of course, he fell in battle… But maybe he lived, maybe he escaped before he was captured or killed. Maybe the Dayne name, and someone from her old life still survived. Would he abandon his home though? It did not seem like him, but he was not foolish enough to keep fighting when he knew he was defeated. Once again, Estyr was unsure, and her lack of answers and knowledge flared her irritation. She wiped her teary cheeks with the back of her hand. It was not fair, why was the world so cruel. _I should have been there! I should have protected Edric and Allyria and all of them!_ Estyr punched the wooden framing of the glass window, somewhat hoping that the glass would shatter, though it did not. Yet it still had made a loud thumping noise, finished with that resonating hum of glass, and her knuckle stung with pain.

“Estyr?” said a sudden and soft voice in the room. Estyr, startled by the words, spun her head to see Talia looking at her from the bed, with tired, hazel eyes. “Was that noise you? Why are you up so early?” 

“No reason,” Estyr said, abashed, and made quick to hide her eyes that still stung from crying and her face that was flush with anger.

“Don’t lie," said Talia. "You’ve been crying, and you knocked something, didn’t you? That anger is going to get you in trouble.”

“What would you know!” Estyr spat, flaring at Talia. But it quickly disappeared when she saw the girl's innocent face. “I’m sorry. That was not becoming.”

“No, it wasn’t, but I’ve learnt to expect that of you.” Talia rubbed her forehead groaning from the night of wine. “Ow, my head hurts.”

“Told you last night not to drink so much,” Estyr told her.

“I don’t remember you saying that.”

“Of course you don’t,” Estyr stood up, placing the thin blade, Starfall, on the windowsill. “You probably don’t remember falling over in front of Lord Gendry either.”

“I don’t, and thank the Old Gods for that. So, what's eating you? Why you up?”

Estyr shrugged at her then walked across the chambers to an oaken drawer. “I wanted to be up early for the tourney,” she lied.

“Liar,” said Talia. “Besides, the tourney doesn’t start until after morning. And it's only archery today. The list is not until the third day. Everyone knows the list is the true tournament.”

“I know,” the white gown fell gracefully when Estyr removed it, and she felt the cool air touch her nakedness. “But Queen Sansa will be up early, and I should be beside her.”

“Whatever for? Want to snatch all the morning bacon before it's gone?” 

“I should be beside her,” Estyr repeated plainly. _I will protect the queen, for Arya. I will not fail the Starks like I failed the others._

“The queen has guards that will be beside her,” Talia huffed in frustration. “Come lie in bed. You can tell me all about the silly things I did last night.”

“Mira can do that. She’s the one who let you drink all that wine,” Estyr began to put on undergarments, a white shirt and brown pants.

“My sister will rub it in my face! Just like she always does. Come and massage my head, rid me of this terrible ache.”

She laughed at Talia as she finished tying her boots. “That’s not happening. I'm not your servant.” Though that was true, Talia's awakened presence had tamed Estyr's disquieted mind and her eyes no longer stung with tears. She was grateful to Talia for that.

"You are ever the torturer. I thought you Dornish were supposed to be loving and caring?” Talia sneered.

“I thought you Northerners were supposed to be tough?” Estyr replied flashing a wink then picked up her sleeping gown from the floor and threw it at Talia. “Get up, some food and movement will get rid of that ache.”

Talia threw the gown to the side, giving a grumpy face that made Estyr smile. “Child! You do know that _I_ am a lady and _you_ are just a commoner. You should be doing what I say, Estyr.”

“Not your servant. Nobodies. I'm the queen's ward, and if you want me to do something, you'll have to try a lot harder than that.” Estyr said, then she pulled her padded leather doublet through her arms, leaving the fastenings in the centre hanging loose. She walked over to the side of the bedding next to Talia who was still sneering at her with a satirical, grumpy face. “So, you can sulk about with your sewing needles all day, like you always do when you don't get your way… Or, you could help tie these fastenings, _my lady_.”

Talia brushed strands of her fair hair from her eyes and smirked at Estyr, then sat up and began to tie the doublet. "Why is that I always do what you say?”

“My Dornish charm.”

Talia laughed. “True, but I suppose you are right, I should get up. The coming days of the tourney will be a great chance to spend more time together that we rarely get. I think we’ll have even less time soon.”

“What makes you say that?” Estyr asked.

“My sister says the queen is cunning, Lady Wylla told me the same, so did her grandfather, Lord Wyman.”

Estyr grabbed Talia’s hands, holding them against her chest. “What’s that got to do with us? Or me?”

“Oh, goodness! I might be half-a-year younger than you, Estyr, but clearly I’m not as dense. Common girls don’t have the life you’ve led. Princess Arya trained you with sword, yes? And Queen Sansa hired that Essosi man, Syllo Vollel, to further that?” 

“Yes,” admitted Estyr. Talia had always been adamant in calling Arya by her title of _Princess,_ despite almost no one else doing so. That was a small quirk about Talia that Estyr liked. And she was right about Syllo too.

Estyr found interest in him with his tales of fleeing the slums of the Free City of Lorath and becoming a Bravo, water dancing by the Moon Pool in Braavos, though further tales were few and far between. All the same, Estyr was grateful for continuing training that Arya had begun. But the man was out of place in Winterfell, and it showed in his lack of interest in the castle and its people. He seemed only to stay for the gold Queen Sansa gave him for the Water Dancing lessons Estyr received.

“Hey!” Talia snapped her fingers in front of Estyr’s eyes, startling her to attention. “You’re not listening.”

“Don’t snap your fingers at me,” Estyr retorted, and pushed Talia’s hand away. “What did you say?”

“Ugh,” groaned Talia. “I said that the queen has Syllo further training you in sword and she has been teaching you courtly matters herself. Then, only a few months after you came to Winterfell, you helped her take Deepwood Motte. Mira spoke of how you handed the queen the banner of House Glover yourself. It’s all very grand, but there is a purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“Curse you, Estyr. I swear the Dornish sun must have done damage to your head. Must I spell everything out? Listen to me, Queen Sansa has these undertakings for you, and has you by her side in her meetings, in court and council. Now, don’t you see? Why else would she be doing all this? She is grooming you for leadership.”

Estyr dropped her hands from Talia’s and gazed blankly at her. "I… I never really thought into it.”

“No of course not, you have the mental capacity of a brick.”

Quicker than Talia could flinch, Estyr grabbed the northern girls face by her chin and forced her head up. “That’s three times you’ve been snark with me, Forrester. They say I’m a smartass, yet listen to you. It’s a wonder you still have a pretty face.” 

Talia gave a coy smirk, “That’s because I’m only a smartass in private.”

Estyr smirked and let go of Talia’s face then flicked her ear, to which Talia let out an inflated wail and wrestled with Estyr’s hands until they both began to giggle. “Okay, stop, stop!” Said Estyr after winning control. “Now tell me, wise _Lady Forrester_ , why do you think the queen is doing this, training me and all?”

“Not out of the kindness of her heart,” Talia began as she resumed tightening Estyr’s doublet. “Maybe Princess Arya saw something in you, and the queen sees the same. Only the God’s know what that is, because I certainly don’t see whatever they do. Regardless, perhaps she does it so you can be her closest advisor to her throne, her _Hand of the Queen_. Or so she can give you land and raise you to a lady. Whatever it is, it’s plain that the queen has designs that involve you. So finally, as I come to my long-winded conclusion, this all obviously means that you and I will have less time together.”

All of this was possible; Estyr began to muse on her friend’s words. Queen Sansa often sought Estyr’s opinion on matters in court, or when she had to settle a matter between a holdfast and a village, or a lord complaining about his lack of grain, or lack of men for construction work and wanted punishment for the villager’s slow progress, if any at all. Estyr felt her answers tailored more to the villagers, as in her previous life, spending time with peasants in Dorne, and then living amongst the smallfolk and the poor of King’s Landing had given her a bias toward them. She knew the toils they faced, their hardships and she knew the impatience of lords. But if the villages and the smallfolk suffered, there would be no one to provide the grain or the men for the holdfasts, or the castles or the cities. When Estyr told this to Queen Sansa, the queen only smiled in response, yet the next day she repeated those exact words to the disgruntled lord and he waddled away from Winterfell. 

Perhaps Sansa’s goal was to make Estyr the lady of a new house in the North. After all, the Manderly’s were southerners once too, what harm could another be? Estyr could move on, become _Estyr of the North_ , a great lady and a fierce commander for the Queen in the North. But she was not sure she wanted to forget her past so easily, her family and the people who protected her. Nor was she sure that she wanted to be a great lady or the queen’s commander.

The true reason may not be so benevolent, she realised. She recalled what she knew of Sansa and her time in King’s Landing as a girl as young as Estyr was now. Queen Sansa had lived amongst great lords, queens and kings. “Liars, manipulators and spies,” Sansa had called them. And she had learnt much from them — how to sway a situation to her advantage, how power worked and the value of information. Estyr’s mind drew her to the feast the night before, where Sansa’s words seemed to constantly repeat. _Knowledge is power. Even the strongest of allies keep secrets_. 

Then, it all clicked in Estyr’s mind as if she could suddenly read an opponent's next move. The queen was cunning, and Dorne was in turmoil… She had information that would give her power in Dorne, and knowledge that she was hiding from Estyr and her other allies. _Queen Sansa spent many years with powerful people who only wanted more power_ , Estyr postulated. _She got her crown through wit and manipulation and the strong support of her vassals. Now she will do it all again with Dorne, and I’m the way she gets it_. Though Estyr remained uncertain if she wanted that, and yet she was afraid she would likely have little choice in the matter.

Estyr pushed the thoughts to the side, she would enjoy the coming days and leave the dwelling for later. She brought her head down and smiled wide as she looked at Talia. For all her faults, Talia Forrester was far from stupid, and she could plainly see the minds of others that Estyr often blinded herself to. She smiled wider at Talia just as the fair-haired girl tied the last fastening, securing the doublet comfortably on Estyr. 

“Darling Talia, you’ve given me a lot to think about. I knew I was friends with you for some reason,” Estyr teased her with a coy smile.

Talia poked out her tongue and slapped Estyr’s chest playfully. "There's that charm."

Estyr and Talia left the guest chamber together strolling through the halls of the Great Tower excited for the first day of the tourney. Talia in a dress the colour of the deep sea, decorated with embroidered ironwood trees. Estyr in her leathers, with Starfall strapped to her waist by the star and sun emblazoned belt Queen Sansa had made her. And, pinned on the breast of her padded doublet, a crude pin of bronze with the sun and star engraved upon it. She wore the pin proudly, even as coarse as it looked, for it was of her own making and it reminded her of homes — Starfall and Sunspear.

* * *

In the mid-morning, the first day of the tourney had begun. The castle was crammed with people, and seemed much smaller with so many lords and smallfolk all in one area. If it were not for the fact that Storm’s End was considerably smaller, she could have easily mistaken its grey walls for that of Winterfell. Thankfully there were no thick layers of snow here to walk through, and the smooth stone of Storm’s End seemed to shine under the golden sun that greeted them on the day. Yet the overstuffed courtyards were transformed to a showground of wooden stalls full of fresh foods for purchase — pies, apple cakes, honey cakes, honeyed wine, sweetened ice milk. Soups, saffron roasted almonds, sherbert, and jelly biscuits. Estyr’s mouth watered as the scents filled her nostrils when she walked by, but she had broken her fast on a large meal of sausage, bacon, barley bread and fresh grapes, so her stomach was much too full for more.

Past the stalls were the canvas tents for the competitors, and above them flew the banners of their respective houses. Estyr recognised some from her lessons; the leaping trout of the Tully’s. The silver chalice and black rose of House Costayne, and the orange bullmoose on the black field of the Hornwoods of Last Hearth and many more she knew, and plenty she did not. Though, to Estyr’s ire, bundled in their own tents in the corner of the courtyard, were the Dornish lords under the golden hand of House Allyrion. 

Estyr walked beside Queen Sansa and Jaren Glover by the tents until they reached the tourney yard itself, they had passed by hedge-knights, freeriders, lords and knights preparing for the day, and the day would be as Talia said, archery. Estyr watched lazily as those who would compete held their bows taught, testing their tension. Fixed the fletching on their arrows, or sharpened their tips with delicate precision. The queens small procession finally arrived at the seating stands meant for the high lords, the king and the Queen in the North. Flying high above the stands were placards of the three major houses: the golden stag of House Baratheon, the crowned three-eyed raven of King Bran the Broken, and the crowned direwolf of House Stark. Queen Sansa sat with Lord Gendry, King Bran and the other lords of whatever importance, (most of whom were from King’s Landing) on the highest levels of the stands, Estyr wanted to stay beside the queen, but Queen Sansa disallowed it and so, Estyr took Jaren and they sat beside Talia down in the midsection amongst other lords and ladies from all across Westeros. Thankfully, however, Estyr thought, the Dornish lords were far from her, seated a good distance away on the other side of the courtyard.

The archery yard itself was a fenced-off field that Estyr guessed was at least one hundred and fifty yards square, and in the centre of the square, ten circular and painted targets of compacted straw were placed for the day's competitors. Though before it went underway, a show was made to herald the beginning of the tournament, singers from the feast had re-appeared, (Estyr did not see Rymund the Rhymer amongst them, strangely enough.) They hollered to the gathering crowd ballads of love and chivalry by heroic knights of bygone history and some of recent events. Such as the Battle of Winterfell, the hero’s who all fought there and the greatest hero, Princess Arya Stark. It was clear to Estyr that this ballad was sung only to please the three most important people in attendance and those who knew Arya well — Lord Gendry, Queen Sansa and King Bran. Although, if she was honest with herself, Estyr did enjoy the song all the same, and she was sure the Northmen enjoyed it too.

Next came the competitors for the tourney. Horn blasts heralded all those that would compete in the archery, melee or jousting events, who strode out on foot or glimmering proudly on their horses. They were of knights and lords, hedge-knights, freeriders and simple soldiers or village hunters who had enough money to pay the entrance fee. The rich shone with the sun Estyr thought, as they came out in their shining steel plate armour that seemed unmarked from battle. Colourful feather plumes stuck out from their helms and their shields freshly painted with the sigil of their houses: an animal, a flower, a weapon and more, some a building, others an ancient beast. Their horses were clean and strong, layered with caparisons of velvet in their house colours. The knights of the Six Kingdoms all made a grand show, galloping around on their mounts, showing off their glimmering armour and unmarked weapons, puffing out their chests and riding up to the stands to greet a lady or two, handing them a flower or blowing a kiss. The crowds encouraged them, clapping and cheering their names. The freeriders and other competitors were less inclined. They waited impatiently for the pomp to end, they were here for gold and glory, no amount of flirting with the crowd would grant them either. The Northmen who would compete looked just as impatient. The former bastard, raised to a lord by Queen Sansa — Larence Hornwood was competing in the archery tourney, Ser Wylis Manderly in the melee, as well as Cley Cerwyn and Aberdale Woodard, Queen Sansa’s guard captain. No Northmen, it seemed, were to take place in the jousting lists.

These introductions seemed to go on forever, and Estyr began to grow as impatient as the Northmen looked. It appeared to her all this fussing over the lords and knights was nothing but grand pomposity, and she yearned for the day to be over quickly so that the next day’s melee event could take place. She wanted to see all these men gallop into each other and beat their bodies till bruised and bloodied in a mock battle. She would have competed herself, had she her own way. Talia, it seemed, loved the pompous show, smiling and pointing to knights, wide-eyed as she stared at their gilded or polished armour. One knight, she seemed enamoured with, Ser Garrett Paege, a hedge-knight from the Riverlands and former squire to Ser Jaime Lannister.

“Did you see his armour!” Talia bleated at Estyr, just after Ser Garrett rode past their stand. She was fawning over the man.

“I saw it,” Estyr answered dully.

“Two snakes wrapped around each other on his cuirass. The snakes were gilded, did you see? You hear he is competing in the melee _and_ the lists? Such a handsome and brave man.”

“I said I saw, and Talia, that's not what bravery is. You shouldn’t be fawning over a man you haven’t even met.”

Talia Forrester turned on Estyr with a feverish annoyance in her eyes. “Allow me these few days to enjoy myself, without your dourness, please? This is my first tourney and likely my only one for many, many years. The North has no events like this. Just think, perhaps Ser Garrett will win the joust, and name me the Queen of Love and Beauty!”

Estyr rolled her eyes, and a mocking grunt came from Jaren Glover seated on her other side. “This is all stupid, they should hurry up and fight each other,” he said.

“Agreed,” said Estyr, and she sat back and crossed her arms, pleased with this small victory.

“Oh, what would you know, Jaren!” Talia barked.

“I know that it’s stupid, just like the wedding: too much singing and dancing and boring stuff. And archery is just a waste of time. I could beat them all if they let me compete.”

“Could you now?” Estyr said, smiling at the boy.

“Yes,” he answered. “I used to get bullseyes all the time at Deepwood Motte.”

“With a tiny children’s bow. You stupid Jaren, these are trained and experienced men competing, you couldn’t hit a bullseye at their level if you tried for a thousand years.”

“I could so!”

“Well then, why aren’t you competing, brave Jaren?” Talia asked

“Cause I’m too young, clearly.”

“Too stupid more like,” Estyr stated, and Jaren glowered silently at her.

“Of course,” Talia added. “The tourney can't take idiots in for competitors, less they loose an arrow into the crowds.” 

Talia mimicked holding a bow and pulling its string taught, she released the imaginary arrow up into the skies, and in mere moments it came back down. Estyr yelped in mock pain and grasped at her right arm where Talia’s imaginary arrow hit her. She reeled, gesticulating wildly, exaggerating the false pain for the show her and Talia were putting on.

“Oh, bastard!” Estyr cried, feigning a thick Northern accent. “I got myself hit by the stupid competitor!”

Talia giggled but joined in the mummery. “By the Seven, my lady! Are you alright? The stupid one is Jaren Glover, but they say he could hit a bullseye!”

“Shut up!” Jaren cried, and he rose from his seat, fuming at the ears. He turned suddenly and marched from their seating in a huff that made Estyr and Talia erupt in laughter.

* * *

Estyr decided that the day of archery was boring. None got struck with arrows, no grand battles nor great feats happened, the day had just been men lining up to hit their targets. It lasted until the late afternoon after Estyr had long become tired from the sun, though she was pleased to see that Andrey Dalt of Lemonwood who was loyal to the Allyrions and Yronwoods of Dorne, was knocked out of the tourney early in the day. Lord Larence Hornwood reached the top three; then he was bested by none other than a village hunter from the Reach. Who, incidentally, won the tournament, bagging the gold prize and the adoration of the smallfolk, and the repressed claps of the lords and ladies. They, of course, wanted a great knight or lord to win the archery tourney, and Estyr smiled knowing they did not get what they wanted.

The second day had come, the day of the melee and Estyr was full with excitement as she once more sat next to Talia and Mira Forrester, with Jaren sitting grumpily beside her amongst the other Northern lords in the northern stands mid-section. Though she was not excited with the day’s weather, It was shrouded in heavy clouds, threatening the tourney with rain or perhaps a storm. _Hopefully, this castle will live up to its namesake,_ Estyr thought. The courtyards were all laid out the same as the day before, aside from the changes in banners above tents for the new competitors and a whole new tent reserved for the Silent Sisters. They would be healing those that no doubt would receive heavy bruises and broken limbs throughout the day. 

As Estyr sat, waiting for the melee to begin, she scanned her surroundings, watching and observing. S eating stands flanked the squared fenced yard that the melee would take place in, on two of its sides. One on the north were Estyr sat, the other opposite on the south, all for the lords and ladies in attendance. The east and west of the yards were becoming packed with smallfolk, all shuffling in ready to watch the mock slaughter, some brought their own seating, a crude stump or homemade chair, most, however, resulted to standing. Estyr brought her attention to the high seats of her stand. Underneath the shade of a canopy, sat Queen Sansa, though Lord Gendry’s great seat beside her was empty, strangely. On the other side of the empty chair was Gendry's new wife, Lady Elyse and beside her King Bran. Below were members of the Small Council, the Hand Lord Tyrion, Grandmaester Samwell Tarly, Lord Bronn Blackwater, Lord Davos Seaworth, the slim and deceptive looking Lord Anders Allyrion, and a woman Estyr did not know, but she saw a lapel pin of a golden tree attached to her sky blue, velvet dress. Beside the unknown woman, sat Maester Jurne, the wrinkly resident maester of Storm’s End. The rest of the stands flowed with other high lords of Westeros who would not compete for the day, and ladies mixing amongst themselves. 

Flanking the northern stands and keeping a tight eye on those in the crowds were the seven Kingsgaurd of the Six Kingdoms, and they looked glorious in their gilded armour and white cloaks. Estyr spotted Ser Brienne, walking rigidly behind the high seats of the king and the Baratheons, Ser Podrick on patrol at the base of the stands, Ser Alyn Estermont walking by the fenced tourney yard, his helm covered face staring into the crowds of smallfolk. Though, with the Kingsguard, were the five Queensguard of Queen Sansa. They looked far less prestigious, over their northern furs and cloths, they wore plain steel armour emblazoned with a crowned direwolf, but no flowing white cloaks clasped to their shoulders. Fat Fred leaned on his double-bladed battleaxe, seemingly in deep conversation with Alyn by the side of the stands. Walter also patrolled the grounds with a keen eye, and because Captain Aberdale would compete in the melee for the day, Aubrey Fall was in charge of the Queensguard, and she stood tall beside the queen on the high stand.

Storm’s End’s Master of Games called a beginning to the melee and as he welcomed all in attendance and began naming those who would take place in the coming battle, the yard began to fill with the competitors, and the crowds filled evermore. The competitors came out all mounted, protected in heavy plate and shield marked with their heraldry, and they were armed with all types of weapons — swords, maces, flails, staffs and truncheons, all blunt of course though they would still cause great pain and wounds no less. By the time the Master of Games had finished his cry of introductions, both east and westerns sides of the yard finally filled with horsemen of two teams who were all ready to charge and dismount their opponents. But just before the first match of the melee began, a final competitor came galloping in. He rode upon a muscular and fierce black destrier. With one hand on the reins and another in his shield, the competitor wore gleaming steel plate that covered him from head to toe, over which was a golden surcoat with a black stag in its centre. Upon his head was a full closed helm, decorated, not with flowers or feathers, but with the antlers of a stag. It was Gendry Baratheon, looking like a god and Estyr’s eyes widened with awe at the sight. Even with the overcast day, his plate armour shone like polished silver. His menacing destrier tore up the ground with heavy gallops as it came across the field. The crowds cheered and clapped for him when they realised who it was. Gendry raised a fisted hand and pumped the air enthusiastically as his horse came to a slow trot and finally stopped beside the Master of Games.

Gendry removed his helm, and his shoulder-length black hair fell behind his neck. “I will be fighting, Daven!” Gendry bellowed. Though he said it to the Master of Games, most of the crowd heard, and they cheered at the words, many of whom were the Stormlords.

“Lord Gendry, I… uh…” stuttered the games master, Daven.

“You would not deny your lord now would you, Daven?” Elyse Baratheon called out from her seat toward the Master of Games.

Devan wiped his brow with a sleeved hand. “Of course not, my lady. Only, the teams have already been sorted and even.”

“Wars are not fought with even sides,” came a surly voice from the stands and the ruckus agreements from the crowd made Gendry’s participation final.

Lord Gendry put his helm back on as two boys dragged a heavy warhammer toward him. He leaned over his saddle and picked up the hammer with one hand, then galloped to the eastern side of the yard. Estyr bit her lip as her eyes followed him riding away, looking powerful and fearsome with the antler helm and the golden surcoat bristling in the air.

It began with a charge. One team of twenty, the other team, with the inclusion of Lord Gendry, made twenty-one. All were mounted, all armoured and armed with blunt weapons of their choosing. As the teams of mounted fighters charged at each other, the roars of the crowd filled the castle and resounded along with the thunderous trampling of the horses. They met in the centre of the field, and the song of battle began, weapons thumped against shields, a mace or bludgeon smashed upon plate, the sound of horses uncomfortable whinnies and men’s cries as they fell from their mounts and out of the competition. Estyr loved every moment of it. Though the day was not over after one mock battle, another came with forty more contestants and the winners of those continued on and on until the late hours of the day when the afternoon sun struggled to find purchase through the ever-thickening grey storm clouds.

The melee was not without its share of agony and defeat. Ser Brynden Blackwood suffered a broken leg when he was dismounted. His brother, Ser Alyn, underwent a worse fate. He was knocked unconscious after which his horse ran around the yard with his body flailing behind due to his armoured foot caught in the stirrups of the saddle. The cruel crowds laughed at his expense until his mare was stopped at the edges of the yard by several squires. Lord Appleton’s breastplate gave out, and he suffered heavy bruising on his chest after multiple hits, though Devan let the crowd know that the Silent Sisters were able to nurse him to health. Ser Addam Whitehead’s horse broke its leg in a charge and was put down, to Talia and Estyr’s regret. Captain Aberdale Woodard received a blunt mace to his thigh, and he was limping heavily, though he proclaimed to be fit enough to continue fighting. 

Lord Edmure Tully took part, Estyr and Talia liked to call him "The Fish Lord," given to the leaping trout that graced his banners and armour. Though they kept that to themselves, for they knew well that Lord Edmure was the uncle to Queen Sansa and Arya Stark, and that Arya had freed him from his prison in the Twins, the former castle of the now extinct House Frey. Which, if the whispers were to be believed, it was Arya Stark who made that house extinct. Yet, despite this unfortunate title they bestowed upon him, and his even more unfortunate past, Lord Edmure fought valiantly, holding his own against two knights simultaneously, which became a show in itself. Until he the bash of a shield ungracefully knocked Edmure from his saddle, much to the disappointment of his wife and son, Roslin and Hoster Tully who Estyr could see sitting in the lower stands.

Of the Dornishmen, Ser Gerris Drinkwater had to retire from the tourney when Lord Gendry’s warhammer smashed the bones in his hands, and Ser Deziel Dalt was disqualified from the competition when it was found that he tried to sneak in an edged sword. Estyr could not understand why he would do that and resulted in believing that it was because he was a Yronwood loyalist and must have been a slimy man who enjoyed hurting people.

By the late afternoon, under the rumblings of an ever-threatening storm, the final match of the melee took place. It was an on-foot free-for-all with the six remaining men. The last one standing in this event would take the prize. While they strode in, preparing themselves for the last fight, Devan, the games master, announced with his booming voice, these final six warriors.

“Your final six warriors in this match of endurance and skill, are Ser Wylis, of House Manderly. Aberdale Woodard, of the Stark Queensguard. Ser Garrett, of House Paege,” Devan cried over the crowd and Estyr looked unimpressed, as Talia glimmered upon the name of her _handsome knight._

Devan continued, “Lord Gendry, of House Baratheon. Preston Cain, a sellsword in the service of Lord Anders Allyrion, and the freerider, Beric of Myr…” As the crowd cheered for the finalist, Estyr’s mind pondered on that last name.

“Beric… Beric Dondarrion,” she mumbled.

“Beg pardon?” Asked Talia.

“Arya Stark told me about a man called Beric Dondarrion,” Estyr answered. “He saved her life during the Long Night. The freeriders name reminded me of it.”

“I've heard of Lord Dondarrion and what he did, as have many. Although, I do find it strange for a man of the Free Cities to have that name.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the name Beric, is not of Essos. It's not from Myr or Tyrosh. Volantis, Qaarth, Braavos, Pentos or any of the other Free Cities. The name is Westerosi in origin.”

Estyr turned on her with an inquiring eye. “You know this?”

Talia smiled at her. “Yes, there are quite a few books on the subject of names and their heritage.”

“How many books have you read?”

The glower in Talia's eyes showed a growing agitation. “It might serve you to read a book or two outside of your lessons, Estyr. Many people find intelligence attractive.”

Although Estyr felt the sting of the insult, she smiled at it nonetheless. “Oh, Talia, I am certain Ser Garrett would fall deeply in love with you when you tell him how much smarter you are than him.”

“Please quieten yourself,” Talia turned back to face the yard and the gathering fighters.

“I think you’d do better as a maester than a lady,” Estyr said

“Agreed. Though the maesters don’t take women, ladies or otherwise.”

“The Kingsguard never had a woman before, and the North never had a queen.”

Talia nodded, “true, but they are very different circumstances with two very accomplished people. No, I fear I will be long in my grave before the Citadel ever takes a woman as a maester.”

Estyr could not resist the smile on her lips, nor the words that came to them, she leaned in close to Talia and whispered in her ear. “Do you think the maesters fear their pricks will swivel into a knot if they spend too much time around a woman?”

The fair hair of Talia whipped in Estyr’s face as she spun on her with a repugnant expression. “Estyr, that is disgusting!” 

A horn heralded the beginning of the last fight, for a long time the six men circled each, trying to find who they could best easily, and with the growing impatience of the crowd, came the gentle descent of rain. Estyr felt it fall on her head before she saw it fall from the skies, and to her relief, Mira and Talia pulled out an oiled canvas parasol each, they created a span wide enough just to cover them all, keeping them dry. And with the fall of rain, the crowd roared as steel sung once more. 

It was Ser Wylis Manderly who made the first move, stepping to his left and attacking the sellsword Prestan Cain, then the rest split into pairs. The single battles seemed like they would last an eternity and Estyr could not decide who she should focus her attention on, she wanted Ser Wylis to best Prestan. Aberdale to triumph over Beric and for some odd reason she sorely wanted Ser Garrett to be thoroughly defeated and brought to terrible pain by Lord Gendry. 

The longer they fought, the further apart the pairs became and yet harder the rain fell, then the defeats came. Ser Wylis could not best Prestan Cain. He yielded when Prestan smashed his blunt sword across his helmed head until his voice boomed with pain within it. Ser Wylis walked from the tourney with an uneasy gait. Aberdale and Beric of Myr fought a hard slog, but the freerider was fast and sly. Aberdale was a seasoned warrior who fought for the Starks for many years since the Battle of the Bastards, and Beric of Myr could not get past his strong defences. But with his injured thigh, Aberdale moved much slower, and Beric took the advantage, he opted for cunning instead of strength. When the freerider had an opening, he struck at Aberdale’s wounded thigh, with a swiftness that Estyr had not noticed until now. Even though Aberdale’s thigh was armoured, the hit seemed to be enough to dismantle his will. He stumbled trying to get his footing, yet the freerider struck again, and again until Aberdale howled with pain and fell, gripping at his thigh. His cries of agony made no word of yielding, but when he was dragged from the tourney by several squires, it was clear Aberdale time in the melee was over.

“No!” Tessa squealed, and her hand wrapped tightly around Estyr’s. When she brought her attention back to the melee, she saw what elicited the reaction from Talia.

Lord Gendry had removed from Ser Garret his shield and was driving the man back with unrelenting attacks with his warhammer. When Ser Garrett’s fatigue caught up with him, his dainty attempts at deflecting another of Gendry’s attacks, caused his sword to fly from his hands, and with a single heavy upswing, Gendry smashed his hammer into Ser Garrett's chest. Even from this far up on the stands, Estyr could hear the crunch of steel from the impact, and she could almost feel the thump Ser Garrett’s body made when he fell to the wet grass.

Estyr intensively leaned forward far enough that her head went beyond the span of Mira’s parasol and she felt the rain splashing on her, dampening her braided hair, but her focus was on Ser Garret writhing on the ground, grasping at his chest. He appeared to not be making a sound, or, she thought, perhaps she could not hear him from such a distance and over the roar of the crowd. Or even worse, Lord Gendry may have caved in Ser Garrett’s breastplate, and the knight could not breathe, let alone cry out in agony. She felt sorry for him, and guilt for wanting him to be hurt so much, and still, she could not understand why she had wanted that. Talia whimpered next to Estyr when they took Ser Garrett away, and Estyr consoled her fretful friend with gentle caresses of her hands, though the melee was far from over and the last two opponents faced each other.

With the commotion of the battle between Lord Gendry and Ser Garrett, Estyr did not see how Beric of Myr bested Prestan Cain, all she witnessed was Prestan being dragged from the yard, with a trail of blood in his wake. Upon the sight of blood, Estyr felt fear for Gendry fill her. Lord Gendry had thrown his battered shield down and wielded his hammer with both hands. Beric of Myr’s carried no shield, likely losing it in the battle with Prestan, Estyr guessed, for he twirled his blunt sword in both hands while marching toward Gendry. She eyed the freerider, like Gendry, Beric of Myr wore a full closed steel helm, but it lacked any adornments on its peak. His armour was plate over a mail hauberk, though it all looked worn and cheap. Some of the pieces seemed to be from a different set altogether, and they looked thin compared to Gendry’s thick steel. Of all Beric of Myr wore, the finest of the pieces was not of hardened material, it was a simple sash of purple silk that hung at his right waist, and it seemed to have some white threaded imagery embroidered upon it, though from where she sat, Estyr could not make it out.

The purple sash danced on Beric of Myr’s waist as he moved with Gendry. Gendry swung as Beric jabbed, each trying to probe the other, and these probing attacks eventually became massive strides of near misses that the crowd cheered and flinched at. When Gendry swung his warhammer, Beric seemed to know better than to attempt a parry with his bastardsword, rather he stepped to the side, or spun a half-pirouette and ventured an opening on Gendry. Though the Stormlord was surprisingly quick and he was able to knock back Beric’s attacks with the long handle of his hammer. This dance lasted through the ever-thickening rain and the ever-looming night, yet Estyr nor the crowd grew bored of it. These two warriors fought a slog, though as time went on, Estyr noticed that it was Gendry who seemed to tire, rather than chase his opponent as he was, Gendry stood almost in the same spot, catching his breath, while Beric of Myr circled him and seemingly taunted him by twirling his sword in the air.

Lightning lit up the skies and a breath later thunder clapped, and Beric struck. He stepped forward on one leg, Gendry moved to meet him, but the freerider suddenly lept of his forward leg and sidestepped Gendry, moving so fluidly. Beric then swung his sword, and it smashed into Gendry’s helm. Estyr heard the crack of steel and the grunt of pain from Gendry as did the crowd, they recoiled at the noise and the sight of Gendry stumbling, holding his helm. Estyr tensed instinctively, and her fingers tightened around Talia’s hand as she watched while Beric, yet again, began to circle Gendry. 

Lord Gendry gathered himself, he pushed down on his antler adorned helm so it sat tight once more, then roared defiantly at his opponent. He strode forward and swung his hammer, still roaring as he did, though Beric of Myr ducked the swing and as he straightened himself, he carried his sword in an upward arc that met Gendry’s ribs. Beric’s sword echoed on steel and sprain back, but he shifted and moved for another strike that once again met Gendry’s head. The hit shocked the Stormlord back, yet this time Beric did not wait for Gendry to gather himself. He pressed forward, attacking and hitting Gendry with his sword, each one met steel, and each one seemed to bring pain. Yet Gendry tried his hardest to stand firm, he took hit after hit, refusing defeat, yet even though she did not want to admit it, she could see this was not a fight in Gendry’s favour.

It went as she feared. Gendry Baratheon fell hard when Beric of Myr swung a last heavy strike upon his head. The echo of steel shuddered as loud as the thunder that rumbled, and Gendry blunt groan made Estyr’s gut twist. He lay motionless on the ground, and the crowd was silent, uncertain how to react. Beric stood over him, pointing his sword to him and he seemed to be speaking. After a moment, Gendry lifted a hand and Beric withdrew his sword and stepped back.

“He’s yielding,” Estyr stated to no one in particular. It was mostly disbelief in what she saw. “Lord Gendry is giving up…”

She felt Talia’s fingers caress her hand as together they watched Gendry slowly lift himself from the damp ground. The crowd was hushed, the sound of rain against the wooden stands and rolls of thunder cried upon the silence. Gendry finally stood, though his balance was uneasy, he slowly removed his helm, and when it came free, blood flowed from his forehead and his nose as the rain drenched his face and already sweat-dampened hair. He and Beric now walked together, Estyr and the entire crowd watching on inaudibly. The two warriors stopped before the fence near the northern and Estyr could see closer now the cuts, blood and defeat on Gendry’s face. It changed in an instant, however, warping into a smile and at the same time, he grabbed Beric of Myr’s free hand and lifted it high.

“This is your champion of the melee!” Gendry shouted above the storm. “Beric of Myr!”

Slowly the crowds began to clap, and those claps became cheers of congratulations, though Estyr noticed the reserve on many in the stands who refused to celebrate a simple sellsword winning, for even Estyr did not clap for him. But she looked to the high seats and saw them all celebrating the win: the king, the queen, even Lady Elyse.

“You are a fine swordsman!” Lady Elyse Baratheon called out. “Don’t spend the coin all at once!” The crowd laughed at Elyse’s comment, though Estyr did not understand what was funny about it.

The freerider stepped toward the stands and away from Lord Gendry. He came to a stop a few feet before the fence and lifted the visor of his helm. “Thank you, my lord, my lady,” he began. His voice gave a resounding metallic boom due to his full helm, and Estyr could not tell whether he had an accent of Essos or not. “But gold and praise do not give me what I truly seek.”

The crowd came to silence at his words, and Estyr narrowed her eyes at him. What an odd thing to say, was he making his own jest?

“What would that be?” Lady Elyse asked, all the joy had disappeared from her voice.

Beric of Myr’s helmeted head panned slowly from Lady Elyse across to Queen Sansa. “The Red Wolf Queen has possession of something very dear to me. I demand it returned.”

The whole crowd grew silent and seemed to turn their gaze at once to Queen Sansa though it was Aubrey Fall beside her who spoke first. “Watch what you say, sellsword. You do not make demands of the Queen in the North.”

“It’s alright, Aubrey,” Sansa said quickly. “I am sure the good sellsword is mistaking himself.” Estyr gazed at the queen, she sat like still water, unmoving and unperturbed by the gawking eyes of the rabble.

“I fear not, Your Grace,” said Beric of Myr, and he stepped across the soft squelching ground so he lined up with the queen. “I know of what I speak, and denying me will bring you great misfortune.”

Estyr’s heart quickened at his words, and she liked not this sudden threat, she rose quickly and made to move, though she felt a hand clench her arm. She spun on it and jerked, but it was Talia that held her firm.

“No, Estyr, leave it,” Talia said, with pleading eyes.

Estyr shook, then pulled from Talia’s grip. “No, I don’t like this.”

She heard Talia call again as Estyr ran across the stands. She felt the rain slick on her face while she scurried by the feet of the crowded stand until she was eventually between Beric and the queen, halfway between them both. When she stopped, she readied a hand on Starfall in its scabbard. 

“You dare threaten the queen! Come no further,” Estyr warned the freerider, and glanced around the courtyard, trying to see if he had a friend or assailant in the crowd, for she did not like wherever this was heading. 

Beric of Myr did not respond to her command, and he did not step back or take offence. He just seemed to stare at Estyr, as if the words went by him unnoticed. Estyr began to grow uncomfortable in the silent gaze, especially because she could not see his eyes hidden by the darkness of the helm from such a distance.

“Speak sellsword, or go!” She commanded as she drew Starfall fully from its scabbard, pointed the blade toward him and took the Water Dancer stance.

Beric crossed his arms at his chest and gave a mocking laugh. “The Queen in the North has a child for a bodyguard?”

“I’m not a child!” Estyr spat back, clenching her free hand into a tight fist by her side.

“Where’s your mother, girl?” said Beric, finishing the question with a scolding laugh that resonated through his helm.

Estyr could not answer the question. It would hurt too much to do so. She stared at him with rising frustration, suddenly Queen Sansa’s commanding voice came from behind her. “That is enough, leave now, sellsword, before I have my men take care of you.” She said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Beric told her bluntly. “I am intrigued. Tell me, girl, how did you get into the queen’s service? Mother seems a testy subject with you. Did Queen Sansa pity you because of what your mother was? Did your mother shame you, was she a whore?”

“Shut up! Do not talk about my mother!” Estyr flared, and she felt the nails dig into her palm and turned Starfall about anxiously with the other. She wanted to throw something at this man. She wanted to gut him for what he was saying. Who did he think he was? How dare he speak of Allyria that way! She would not allow some sellsword to speak ill of her.

“Take back what you say, or I will hang you from your guts!” Estyr bellowed now, her voice grating with rage.

Beric simply chuckled, “You are quick to threaten and easy to rile. You know, now that I think about it, perhaps I knew your mother, I may have met her in the many whore houses throughout Westeros and gave her a good fucking!”

It was too much, she could abide slander against herself, but not Allyria, not like this. Estyr gritted her teeth and began descending the stall. Though when Estyr tried to move forward, she felt a sudden hand on her shoulder, she jerked it off, spun and slashed. She felt Starfall dig into cloth and skin and saw a red spray. She ignored it and bounded down the stall seating, jumping between lords and ladies as she heard the shouts from those behind her, though they were all muffled and irrelevant. Rage deafened her. Just before she neared the ground, a man dressed in velvets stepped in her path, gesticulating with his hands as if he could stop this. Her fury boiled with these people constantly in her way, she ducked from his grasps and brought the pommel of Starfall upwards into the man's groin, he keeled over shouting in pain and Estyr jumped over the last two seats onto the wet grass.

Beric of Myr was beyond the fence that was all that separated them, and she wasted no time. Estyr sprinted and leapt over the fence in one motion; she grunted as she landed, yet to her annoyance, Ser Alyn Estermont appeared in between her and her foe. He stepped forward and attempted to grab her, Estyr turned and slashed at his reaching arm, Starfall rang on his steel bracers and Ser Alyn persisted. Estyr took another sidestep from his approach and saw an opening between the faulds around his thighs, she stabbed the point of Starfall toward it and the needle-like point tore through leather and skin. When she pulled the thin blade out, Ser Alyn roared in pain and Estyr saw red once more.

As the Kingsguard knight fell, Estyr drew her ire to Beric of Myr. The sellsword held his bastardsword in one hand, the other held forward as if pleading her to stop. “Wait!” his muffled voice yelled from behind his helm. “You don’t have to do this! I can—”

“I’ll kill you!” Screamed Estyr over his pleas. The cascading rain fell hard upon her face and made her anger fuelled steps squelch the ground and her grip on Starfall slick, yet she held tight. 

She attacked, all the rage let out as she jabbed Starfall toward the freerider. Again and again, she thrust but Beric parried each or he simply stepped back. Her hands shook and her temples burned, furious that he retreated from her, livid that she could not break through his defence. 

“I didn’t want this!” Beric of Myr said through his helm, as she continued to assault him. “Estyr!”

She made no response, her blade was her answer. Thunder echoed above and lightning clashed around them as she stepped and struck, swung and jabbed. Like a fleeting feeling, all that Arya Stark and Syllo Vollel had taught her disappeared, her sword-work had become wildness. She could only see vengeance and she wanted to hurt. Now Estyr swung Starfall with both hands, wide and wild swings with the short blade, it was all Beric could do but just step back. She howled as she swung, each swing seemed further from Beric than the last until he ended it. Estyr swung another wild arc with Starfall, yet this time Beric met it with his sword, he parried her swing and her arm recoiled and he brought the flat of his blade down upon Estyr’s wrist.

The pain was immediate and intense. She yelped as it shot up her arm and down to her fingers like a lightning strike. Starfall fell from her grasps as her wrist shuddered with agony, and suddenly she felt a great impact on her chest. Her back was on the wet ground in an instant and her breath escaped her, winded by Beric’s strike. She lay on the grass, wheezing and holding her throbbing wrist.

Two pairs of hands grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet, Estyr was delusional with pain and she coughed and wheezed as the anonymous hands tried to hold her upright, then she saw the others. Ser Brienne, Ser Podrick, Alyn of the Queensguard and a dozen of Lord Gendry’s Household Guard began to surround Beric of Myr with their swords drawn. The freerider dropped his sword, fell to his knees and raised his hands. Now was her chance she knew, Estyr tried to wriggle free, but the hands that held her were too strong and her breath had not fully recovered.

“You need to stop, girl!” growled a man close to her.

Estyr looked up and saw the two men holding her were Fred and Walter. “Let me go!” she yelled at them, but they only held tighter. She drew her furious eyes back to Beric of Myr and it appeared he was already looking to her from behind his helm.

“I’m sorry!” Beric of Myr said to her.

 _Sorry?_ Who did he think he was? How dare he! “Burn in hell!” she screamed at the freerider from the top of her lungs and fought harder against the arms holding her back. But as she fought and wriggled, she spotted the queen. Queen Sansa had appeared suddenly and was standing, gazing at Estyr with a flat expression. The rain fell hard and it had dampened the queen’s grey dress and her plaited red-hair, and the direwolf crown upon her head shimmered with wetness. Yet, she stood seemingly without care.

“Your orders, my queen?” Fred asked her.

“Take the girl to my chambers, and keep her there.” Queen Sansa answered with a curt and emotionless tone.

 _The Girl?_ Estyr could not understand. Her face contorted incredulous at the queen. “Your Grace, no! The freerider has to be punished, let me do it.” She pleaded as Fred and Walter dragged her from the scene. “Let me do it!”

Her cries went unheard, as the Queensguard dragged her away, she brought her ire back to Beric of Myr, and Kingsguard and soldiers that encircled him as he knelt. A hand of a Baratheon guard tore Beric’s helm from his head, and Estyr’s eyes widened at what she saw, or what she thought she saw. The freerider’s hair was as pale as sand and the dimples on his cheeks glistened under the rain and sweat on his familiar fresh face.

* * *

Estyr sat on the edge of the bed inside Queen Sansa’s chambers in the Great Tower, while the cracking of the storm continued outside. She was cold, still dripping from the rain and her clothing and leathers squelched and stuck uncomfortably against her skin. They had not returned her sword, but they had given her a damp, ice-cold cloth for her sore wrist that she held on to tightly, though it did little, she could hardly move the fingers of her right hand before striking pain overcame them. It was not the pain that concerned her now, it was the face of the man she saw, the man who called himself, _Beric of Myr._ Estyr had seen his sandy hair, his fair face, but it could not have been who she thought. _Edric would never say such harsh words_ , she brooded, but she could not forget what he said at the end _“I’m sorry.”_

Why would he say that? And he had said it so sincerely. Estyr grew agitated rubbing her head from her reckless thoughts, she had been left in this room, alone with them for so long, that it was not only her hand burning with pain. Yet, even when she called out to Fred and Walter who stood outside the door of the chamber, they never answered. So she paced and thought, sat and thought and screamed and thought. It was not until the rain and storm had subsided and night had well fallen, that Queen Sansa appeared. The door to her chambers swung open and Sansa strode in with heavy steps, stopping by the dresser on the other end of the room. She too was damp, rainwater dripped from her dress, the crown and her hair that was unkempt, which was a rare sight and it made Estyr feel uneasy.

Estyr jumped off the bedding and came beside the queen. “Your Grace, what is to happen with the sellsword?” She asked tentatively, but when the queen made no immediate response, Estyr continued. “Will he be punished? He should be punished for what he did, what he said… Did you… did you find out what he wanted? Who he was? I thought I saw—”

Suddenly the queen removed her crown and slammed it hard on the dresser. “What in the Seven Hells were you thinking!”

Estyr recoiled at the severe tone in the queen's words. “I… I—”

“You acted the child! You disobeyed me and lost your temper.”

“I am not a child!” Estyr cried with defiance rising. “You told me yourself, I am a woman grown! And I was—”

“Then I was bloody wrong! I called out to you to stop, but you ignored it because you were set on killing the man! How do you imagine that looked to the hundreds of people there?”

“Is that all you care about, how it looked?”

“Careful, I have no patience for snark after your foolishness today.”

“Foolish? I did what I had to because he was threatening me!” Estyr became flustered, _why was the queen this way?_ “He was threatening you! I was trying to protect you!”

“I do not need your protection!” Sansa snapped back as she turned to face Estyr. Her eyes were a cold blue chill of contempt.

“But…” Estyr took a step back, she could feel the tears well in her eyes and her hands began to tremble as her blood boiled. “I wanted to protect you… and he, he.... He was insulting my family… my mother!”

“And what?” Yelled the queen. “I lived years in King’s Landing suffering insults to my family. How my father was a traitor, how my brother was a monster and my mother a whore and how I had traitor's blood! It was not easy for me, but I did not go around wailing like a child and cutting people in rage. The last time a woman let her anger consume her, an entire city was almost burned to the ground.”

Estyr grimaced, she was growing furious with the queen. This was not the same. How could she not understand? Why was nobody on Estyr’s side! “No!” she shrieked with all the rage of the day coming through. “You let them walk over you! I won’t do that! I’m not going to sit and cry like you! I did something about it today, I took action. I wasn’t a scared little girl like you! You were a coward!”

The queen’s cold eyes seemed to peer through Estyr, they did not blink and her face remained unemotional after the harsh words. Estyr felt a chill, perhaps that was too much, she sensed she had gone too far, but the queen had to understand.

Estyr swallowed, “Your Grace—”

“Do you know of what you did today?” The queen interrupted with a cold tone. “You assaulted Lord Tommen Costayne of Three Towers, and you cut Ser Alyn Estermont of the Kingsguard, and Aubrey Fall. Aubrey is fine, thankfully. Lord Costayne has no lasting injuries aside from his dignity, though he is irate. Ser Estermont, on the other hand… he suffered an almost fatal wound. You cut into the artery on his thigh; he would have bled out and died were it not for Maester Jurne’s quick thinking. Now his father, Lord Aemon Estermont, is furious, and he demands recompense, as does Lord Costayne. Let’s not forget the castle full of people who witnessed your stupidity today, they will want to see their king do justice.”

Estyr remembered the fit of rage she had, and how she pierced Starfall into a Kingsgaurd’s thigh. The spray of blood, the cry of pain from Ser Alyn. She felt regret pang her, but it was not her fault. “That wasn’t what I wanted, but they were in my way, and I was just so…”

“Angry?” Queen Sansa ventured. “Because of your temper, innocent people were hurt. You assaulted a lord, attacked my own Queensguard, and almost killed a knight of the Kingsguard. The people demand justice, so you will be punished.”

“Punished?” Estyr blurted. “I was defending you and my family! How is it my fault that people got in the way of that? It's the sellsword that should be punished!”

“I wonder if you would still say that, had Ser Alyn died.”

“Well he isn’t dead, and I shouldn’t be punished just because of a few upset lords!”

“Quiet!” The Queen suddenly yelled so violently, it froze Estyr. “You are a commoner, normally the punishment for your crimes would be death. But, Bran and I have swayed the lords to accept a more lenient punishment.” Queen Sansa paused, which gave Estyr a short chance to think on that. _Normally?_ So she would not be given death. As if she deserved any punishment. But what punishment would sate the lords who wanted her dead? She dreaded the coming answer. 

After Queen Sansa turned from Estyr, to look out the window above the dresser, it came. The Queen spoke it slowly, and with such melancholy, it clouded the room with grim. 

“Estyr, you are to be exiled to the Wall.”

 _What!_ _No... No, This is not true. No!_ Her mind went haste. She could not fathom the words. There was some mistake. _I can’t stay at the Wall!_

“The Wall? The Wall is for criminals and men! Your Grace, this is wrong, this is not fair!”

The queen seemingly ignored her pleas. “You will remain inside the Great Tower of Storm’s End until the end of the tourney. You will be under guard and you will not leave. When we return to the North, a guide will take you from Winterfell to Castle Black whereupon you will swear the Night’s Watch oath and serve there until your death. You shall hold no lands, take no husband. Mother no children.”

“No! I can’t be sent to the Wall, I’m your ward! Did you not tell them? Did you not defend me? Why would you let them take me!” Estyr pleaded, but the queen gazed silently out the window, into the overcast, starless sky. “I helped you take Deepwood Motte!”

“And you think that gives you free rein to do as you wish?” Sansa said sternly. “To disobey me and act like a fool? Believe me, Estyr, this is not what I wanted for you. But you have disappointed me today, and you are to face the consequences, as we all must.”

Estyr fought back against her emotions, the crying and the anger, but it was all hopeless. She tried to plead with the queen again, though her sorrow was ignored. The longer she pleaded, and the longer Queen Sansa snubbed her, the worse it became. Her pleas turned into a wrath of tears and curses till her throat hurt, and her breath shortened, yet the queen stood silent, letting it all come. It was then Estyr became desperate, suggesting to herself that now was the time to tell the truth of who she was, if Queen Sansa did not already know it. A more appropriate time would likely never come now.

“They can’t send me to the Wall, Your Grace. I’m not who you think I am…” Estyr swallowed hard, whipped the tears from her cheeks and prepared herself as she would break the promise she had made to her father. “I am Estyr Martell. My father was Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear. I had brothers and sisters that all died cruelly. You knew Oberyn Martell in King’s Landing. He was my uncle. I am a Princess of Dorne. I am the heir to Sunspear. I must not be taken to the Wall!” Estyr began to gamble, for the queen still made no response. “You know this Sansa. You want me in Dorne so you would have power there, but I can’t be a Princess of Dorne if I’m at the Wall! I can’t fulfil my father’s wish of returning our family to its glory if I stay in a reasty, frozen prison for the rest of my life!” She was not certain that she wanted to be a Princess of Dorne, but she was desperate, and the words sounded better, if that was truly what the queen wanted to hear.

In the silence between them, a rasps came at the door. Queen Sansa stood straight and placed her direwolf crown back upon her head. She turned slowly, facing Estyr and finally spoke. “Calling yourself a princess does not make you one. Nor have you ever acted like one. You are a common girl who acts the angry child, now a criminal too. I will hear no lies of Martell’s. Your father is Lord Commander Reed. Your siblings are the black brothers.”

Estyr could not believe this. It felt like a dream, a nightmare. “You're not bloody listening!” She screamed at the queen. She showed her fury, but she could not hide her tears that welled in her eyes.

“Nor must I,” Queen Sansa walked away towards the door of the chamber, leaving Estyr in motionless shock. 

_The queen doesn’t believe me_ … Estyr thought with growing anxiety. _If she doesn’t believe that I am a Martell, no one will_. It was all for naught. Estyr was left standing, staring at the ground and when the door closed with a loud thud, she dropped to a slump against the dresser and let the tears fall. She was alone now more than ever. She had no sword, no home and now, officially, no name, no identity. She was Estyr of Nowhere. All her father's plans had fallen through. Edric and Allyria died for nothing. Even Arya’s guidance and training had no purpose on Estyr. There was no great plan that Sansa had for her, no plan for Dorne or any care for it. The queen threw Estyr to the side like a rotten apple core. The Wall was the only future now, a lifeless existence. Estyr lifted her legs and held on to them tight as she cried into her knees and the lifeless night passed her by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not want my characters to be perfect, or Mary Sues, even the OG GoT characters. I want them to make mistakes, have flaws and notions that are dislikable, but hopefully not so much that you don't like to read their arcs. I hope this is all portrayed well in this, and upcoming chapters.
> 
> Also, on the note of upcoming chapters... I have been working on an Arya one for a while, with her across the Sunset Sea. It should be released after the next one or two chapters.


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